Chapter 9-5

He awoke again in the evening, feeling better rested, but very hungry. Lt. Ailill gave him a quick check-up, and once he had agreed the half-dragon was well, a young aide led him to a small table, then quickly brought a hearty meal. Garkhen ate quickly, feeling himself reviving. 

Once he had finished, Ailill came in and inspected him more thoroughly. Finally, after several minutes of questions, exercises, and so forth, the elf reluctantly agreed that he was well.

“I'm quite surprised you recovered so quickly, Private,” he said, “But I suppose I should expect no less, given your heritage.”

Garkhen nodded. “I owe... much to my parentage, though there are some aspects of it I would not have chosen.”

For a moment, Lt. Ailill seemed like he would say something about this... but then the moment passed. It took yet another moment for him to say, “Private, you're well enough to report for duty. I suspect your squad will be glad to see you.”

They were, indeed. Sgt. Gerim smiled when he saw the armored half-dragon approaching. 

“Private Garkhen! I didn't know you'd be able to make it in time for tonight.”

“I was not certain I would, either,” Garkhen replied, “But it seems I have recovered from last night's exertions.”

The Sergeant waited for Garkhen to take his place with his fellow soldiers, then said, “We were just reviewing our orders. We've received word that we might be sallying tonight, if the Rebels are as good as their word and attack the undead after nightfall. Until that happens, we will be manning our posts on the wall.”

“If the order comes to sally, we will join up with the rest of the Company at that gate,” he pointed to the east, “With all possible speed. We will march out and take our place in formation. And we will kill whoever's been raising these corpses.”

That brought ragged cheer from the squad. The thought of striking back, after the grinding battle of the last nights, was certainly an attractive thought. 

There was a lighter mood amongst the assembled soldiers at their evening meal. Talk of what they would do to those responsible for the undead army that night filled the air. Garkhen felt rather... odd, around so much talk of violence. While he could clearly see the necessity here, yet he still shrank from the thought of actually raising a weapon against another living being. The walking dead, those he could destroy. It was a mercy, a release from the terrible magics that held them bound to this life—if even there was anything vaguely sentient in the animated corpses. But even a necromancer was another man.

He strove to push such thoughts aside as he took up his accustomed position on the wall. Again the undead army advanced as night fell, and again he had to hold his wards against their initial barrage of destructive magics. It was not so intense as the night before, as if the attackers had exhausted themselves as thoroughly as the defenders. Whatever the reason, Garkhen was glad enough to not be facing such an assault again.

And then, when night had fully fallen, a sudden light appeared in the distance, beyond the throngs of walking dead around the walls. A flame, with a dark shape behind it. Garkhen peered at the sight, wondering. Was it a fire-breathing dragon, flying low and burning those on the ground? 

Then he noticed something else. Where it had before been a clear evening, without a cloud in the sky, now the stars above them were steadily disappearing behind an expanding blackness. The magical assault faltered, as if their foes were also noticing and wondering at the meaning of these things.

And then, the skies began to rain fire.

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Oh, look, a rain of fire. No big deal. Happens all the time, right?

Chapter 9-4

If anything, the rumors going through the troops were wilder when Garkhen returned than when he left. It was... telling that he received only a few questions, despite his rather conspicuous departure and return. What few questions he received were from his fellows in Telarnen's Company, and these he easily deflected. It seemed even they were not fully comfortable with him, still. Or perhaps they simply knew that it was sometimes better not to have their questions answered.

The undead started moving earlier that evening, just as the sun was reaching the horizon. Whether it was a new tactic, trying to catch the defenders off-guard, or something more arcane still, no one could say, but they moved so slowly the soldiers had no difficulty in preparing themselves to repel the assault once again. 

Which was not to say that night's battle was easy. There seemed to be more of the hooded figures, and this night, their barrage of spells was particularly fierce. For what seemed like hours, Garkhen held his wards over his section of the wall, fire, lightning, and more exotic elements blasting against them. When finally the magical assault dwindled and then ended entirely, the half-dragon collapsed to his knees, nearly blacking out from exhaustion. 

He was only half-aware of the sounds of battle around him, his eyes closed as he tried to focus through the waves of fatigue that assailed him. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a voice. It took him a couple moments to realize it was calling his name. Wearily, he opened his eyes and looked up.

Sergeant Gerim was looking down at him with concern. “Can you stand, Private?”

Shakily, Garkhen tried to lift himself off his knees, but no sooner had he started to rise than he crashed back down again. Mutely, he shook his head. 

He could hear the Sergeant walking away, but he couldn't sort his shouting out from the din of battle. He simply stayed as he was, barely clinging to consciousness for some reason he was too tired to identify. Then he felt many hands grasping him and lifting him. He was being taken... somewhere. But he was pretty sure they were friends, so it was all right.

The last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness was the odd feeling of being carried down stairs.

Garkhen awoke to muted sunlight through windows and a voice that seemed familiar. Slowly, he sorted through his memories, trying to figure out where he was, feeling the bone-deep weariness that even now seemed to press him down into... the bed. Yes, he was laying on a bed. 

He opened his eyes. Recognition tickled at the back of his brain. This was... yes, this was where they had most recently been treating the wounded. But why was he sleeping here? Shouldn't he be up and working now?

He got partway through sitting up before he realized why he wasn't. Not only was he no longer under Lt. Ailill's command... he also hardly had the energy to sit. So he collapsed back into the bed.

That got the Lieutenant's attention. Garkhen heard footsteps coming toward him, then saw the elf's familiar face.

“Private,” he began, then paused. After a moment, he continued, “I am glad you are putting your talents to better use. But I would prefer that you not return here due to doing so.”

The hint of a grin played across Garkhen's lips. “Yes, sir.”

Ailill hesitated a moment longer, then said, “Now rest. You spent far too much energy last night.”

Garkhen's exhausted body and mind were glad to obey that order.

*******

Garkhen has a distinct tendency to overexert himself. He gets better later... but really, he just builds more spellcasting skill and stamina.

Chapter 9-3

But then the rumors started. Someone had been let in the front gates. A small group of emissaries from the Rebel forces, if what was said could be believed. Garkhen himself, overhearing the conversation as he had his evening meal, did not know what to make of it. It seemed speculation was rampant over what it could mean. Were they delivering an ultimatum, revealing their alliance with these dark forces? Were they proposing an alliance against an unexpected (and very dangerous) third side in the war? Or were they here for something else entirely?

Garkhen was not sure he even believed anyone had come, much less some of the rumors about the group. But then a messenger from Captain Telarnen arrived, ordering Garkhen to come meet with him. He could feel the eyes of all present on him as he followed the messenger out of the hall they had claimed for their mess.

It wasn't far to where the Captain awaited Garkhen. The messenger lead him to a door, knocked on it, and spoke briefly with a guard. Then he was let in. The half-dragon saw several of the Loyalist officers he recognized, as well as many he did not. In one corner of the room, a small, mismatched group sat. They looked to Garkhen rather like 'Irregulars'--the term he had learned for adventurers in military employ.

All in the room were focused on a semi-transparent robed man standing in the middle of the room. At first Garkhen thought him some sort of spirit, but he soon realized the truth of the matter—it was a magical sending, an image of a man who was actually some distance away, speaking through means of spells.

“Clearly, we have no way of proving to you that we have no affiliation with these undead abominations,” the sending was saying, “But I can say this: our strike on their rear will be quite... visible. It will be clear before you sortie that we are not betraying you.”

One of the Loyalist generals snorted derisively. “Well I suppose we'll just wait for that proof to make our move, then.”

The guard who had let Garkhen in quietly steered him to Cpt. Telarnen's side. The Captain saw his soldier approach, and leaned over to speak with him.

“Rebel emissaries,” he nodded at the odd group in the corner. “They have put us in contact with their generals via this wizard.”

Garkhen nodded, to show he understood, then whispered a question. “Why have you asked for me, sir?”

The sending was speaking again. “That would be acceptable, yes. But our attack will be much more effective if your troops are prepared to sally when we strike.”

Captain Telarnen took a moment to listen... or perhaps to think. “I thought that your... unique perspective might be useful in this situation. Tell me if anything occurs to you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Ferdunan Grand General's voice cut through the room. “Then we will be prepared tomorrow night. But our soldiers will not move from our walls until we have seen this proof you promise.”

The sending nodded, then seemed to stare off into space. After a moment, he looked back at the Grand General. “Then it is agreed. You will again grant our messengers safe passage?”

“Of course,” he replied, seeming almost insulted at the suggestion he might do something else.

“Then we are agreed,” The sending said. “If you must change the plan, your mages should be able to get a sending to us, but we suspect there may be some amongst those controlling the undead who might well be able to intercept these messages. It would be best if we were not to depend upon sendings.”

And with that, the sending disappeared. Captain Telarnen sighed quietly and turned to Garkhen.

“I suppose I called you too late. Unless you have something you wish to say, Private?”

Garkhen shook his head slightly. “No, sir.”

“Then return to your unit. And keep this quiet for the time being. It's best not to spread tales until they must be known.”

********

So, Garkhen finds out something about the Rebel forces. But are they telling the truth? Or are they actually in league with the undead horde? Tune in next week to find out! :D

Chapter 9-2

Despite sleeping away much of the day, Garkhen hardly felt rested when he finally arose. The eyes of his fellow soldiers told a similar tale about their feelings. A hearty meal helped somewhat with their fatigue, however, and drills forced them into wakefulness.

The undead assaulted again at the fall of night. The battle was as terrible as the night before. While the defenders were now better prepared, yet there was something... terrifying about their mindless relentlessness. And while the Loyalist forces suffered few casualties, yet it seemed they were hardly reducing the size of the host before them.

Garkhen was more conservative in his use of priestly magic and draconic breath during the battle. He healed only when necessary to save lives, and used his lightning breath only once, near dawn. Yet he found himself as exhausted as before. His squad seemed to be suffering similarly. Perhaps, for all that the dead seemed to be attacking them ineffectually, they would win through grinding fatigue. 

Two more days and nights passed similarly. The third day, the mood amongst the defenders was gloomy. Many men had deserted the first night, with a steady trickle over the last several days, and those remaining were feeling the strain. These were not men who had marched from their homes anticipating facing the undead and whatever fell wizards had animated them. Many could not face such horrors. Those who stayed... recognized that the horrors would soon reach their homes if they were not stopped here.

*****

Next week's post will hopefully be longer, since I actually *don't* have a paper due next week.

Chapter 9-1

Chapter 9: Long Night

The rest of that night passed in a haze of exhaustion. Garkhen could only remember a vague, faceless stream of undead, climbing up ladders to meet his mace. Every now and again they managed to throw one of the heavy ladders down, but always another took its place. 

And yet, for all of their exhaustion, their lines held. The walking dead gained no foothold upon the walls, and their arrows and the spells of the hooded ones found few weaknesses in their armor. There would be much work for healers that day, yes, but little work for gravediggers, save for reburying the corpses of those whose eternal slumber had been disturbed. 

The tide of the dead ebbed before the sun's first rays. By the time the sun rose, the army of undead were already miles distant, camped to the west of the walls. But the keenest-eyed among their lookouts could make out another army to the north—the Rebel forces had made camp some miles from the city. Rumors flowed faster than the river. Were they waiting for their undead allies to grind the Loyalists down before retaking Garnot? Were they simply waiting to see what happened? Were they as surprised by the appearance of this army of walking dead as the Loyalists?

Other rumors spoke of what their forces might do. Would they try to strike at the undead during the daytime hours? Would messengers be sent to the Rebel army? But these things held little interest for Garkhen at the time. As soon as Sgt. Gerim dismissed him, he stumbled his way to his quarters and collapsed into a deep, dreamless sleep.

*******

Sorry for the late post. I had a group project to work on over the weekend, so most of my writing was going towards that.

Chapter 8-8

“Private Garkhen!” Garkhen looked over at the source of the shout, and saw Sgt. Gerim running up to the wall. “Let's get this off of here!”

He had sheathed his sword, and set his hand to the top of the ladder as he reached the wall. Garkhen saw what he wanted, slid his mace into its belt loop, and stepped forward.

“Now heave!”

With all his might, Garkhen pushed, digging the blunt claws of his feet into a seam in the wall for more traction. Slowly, the ladder started to tip back. Straining against the weight, Garkhen heaved with all his might. The ladder lurched outward, hung for an agonizing moment, and then steadily tipped further back, dropping into the dark sea of undead beyond with a great crash.

“Didn't... think... we could... actually... do it,” the Sergeant gasped. “Guess that... dragon blood's... good for... something... Private.”

Garkhen nodded at the grinning, gasping human, his own slight smile hidden by his helmet. Said helmet then saved him from another arrow. Sgt. Gerim brought up his shield, and Garkhen did likewise, as more arrows came raining down. Somewhere off to his left, Garkhen heard a cry of pain. He turned to look, arrows still rattling off his shield. One of the archers had not gotten to cover quickly enough, and lay on the ground with an arrow protruding from his chest. Another soldier crouched over him with a shield, protecting them both, but the wound was likely fatal.

Impulsively, Garkhen rushed over, trusting to his shield and armor to defend him from the arrows. With his free hand he grasped his symbol of Bahamut, chanting a spell-prayer. He reached the fallen man just as he finished it, and touched the now glowing symbol to the wound. As it began to close, Garkhen wrenched the arrow out. The flow of blood quickly stopped as his healing magic took hold.

Once he was certain the man would live, Garkhen stood... and nearly fainted from exhaustion. That had been a wearying spell. He had to remember to conserve his energy if he was going to last through the night. Two more ladders crashed against the wall, and Garkhen forced himself to go to the nearest and smash the skeleton which was just reaching the top of the wall.

******

Another short post. Sorry.

Chapter 8-7

Garkhen swung his mace down, smashing the bones of said hand as the animated skeleton was pulling itself up. Undeterred, it simply lifted up its other hand, which the half-dragon quickly treated likewise. Somehow, the undead creature managed to get its head above the level of the wall without its hands... so Garkhen knocked off its head. That sent what remained of it tumbling back down off the wall. 

Then an arrow ricocheted off his armor. Startled, Garkhen stepped back slightly and looked up, remembering that he had not only the ladder to worry about. Unfortunately, that gave the next skeleton time to get itself up the ladder. The young half-dragon just had time to realize his mistake before he had to block its first sword-swing. It struck his shield with surprising force, but it would take much more power to move Garkhen. He stood his ground and swung back, rather clumsily. The skeleton had only to move back slightly to dodge, and then it took advantage of his over-extension to stab its sword straight at his heart.

Garkhen felt the impact of the blade's tip on his armor, and then heard a loud snap as the end of the blade simply broke off, the force exerted on its rusted metal too great to bear. Now the skeleton was off balance, and so Garkhen could easily smash his mace through its attempt to defend itself, and then through its ribcage and spine. It disintegrated into a heap of bones, the magic that had once held it together crushed together with its bones. 

But now an animated corpse had already heaved itself up onto the wall, and another was close behind it. Garkhen realized that he was being to slow this way, and so, as he deflected the zombie's first swing with his shield, he inhaled deeply... then exhaled a bolt of lightning straight into its chest. The magical thunderbolt blasted a hole through the zombie, as well as through the neck of the zombie that was just mounting the wall behind it. To the half-dragon's surprise, a hole in its chest did not stop his immediate opponent from attempting an uncoordinated counterattack, but it was now so clumsy that he easily finished it off with a blow from his mace.

For just a moment, Garkhen had time to shake his head, trying to refocus. Using his draconic lightning breath always made him feel rather light-headed, and he could not afford something like that at present.

*******

Apologies for not posting last week. Grad school homework has begun in earnest. But, now we get to see Garkhen fight! He's not particularly good at the whole melee thing... but when you're a half-dragon priest in nearly impenetrable armor, you can afford to be somewhat clumsy against lesser undead creatures, apparently.