The sun was just beginning to set as Isolde neared the village of Lambley. Its orange light cut diagonally through the trees to cast long shadows on the forest floor as she picked her way carefully around the perimeter, unsure what dangers awaited her.
It was the smell of smoke that first told her something was wrong. It seeped into her thoughts sideways and stirred her memory. It wasn’t the mouth-watering smell of meat roasting on a feast day. Nor was it the warm, woody smoke of cottage or campfire. This was the smell of things burning that were not meant to burn. Of wood and leather, cloth and clay, all swallowed up together and fed to the undiscerning flames. It was the smoke of burning homes.
When Isolde saw the flames flickering through the trees, she broke into a run again, sprinting through clearings and dancing nimbly around briar patches until she hit the well-worn path that led to Lambley. The sky was darkening now, and the lights of the village were visible through the thinning vegetation. That’s what she told herself as she ran. It was the lights of the village. Brighter than usual, perhaps, but nothing to worry about. Perhaps someone was burning spoiled crops behind a barn. Or perhaps the elders had called a celebration for some reason. They would be glad of the meat she’d bring them if it were so.
But it was not so, and Isolde knew it. The red-robed stranger had warned her of evil afoot. And the light above the village was too bright for any bonfire. Something was burning out of control. And there was a stranger threat; vague, but unsettling. Between Isolde and the flames lay the stream that fed Lambley’s gardens and filled their wells. The villagers should have been rushing towards it to fill their pails and fight the flames. She should have been able to hear their shouts as they worked to bring the fire under control.
Instead, as she neared the low dwellings on the edge of the village - untouched by fire so far, at least - a different sound came drifting to her on the acrid, smoke-filled air. There was shouting, yes, but it was urgent and panicked, not the shouts of an orderly chain of firefighters. And there was screaming too; high-pitched and terrible. And above both, a dry rasping sound like the cry of crows. But worst of all was the unmistakable sound of metal grating against metal as sword and axe and spear clashed in battle. There could be no doubt now in her mind. Lambley was under attack.
Isolde’s first thought was of her family; her dear foster parents, and her young brother Will. Fear shot through her, chilling her blood, as she thought about what might have happened to them. But the home they shared was on the far side of the village. Two courses of action lay open to her. She could creep around the perimeter of the village, staying out of sight in the fringe of trees where civilisation gave way to the endless woodland. Or she could take her chances and force a path through whatever dangers lay ahead in the village itself. The first option was attractive. Isolde was a fine archer, but she was no warrior. She was little more than a girl really, just shy of her eighteenth birthday, and at the prospect of throwing herself into battle against an unknown enemy she suddenly felt very small and helpless. If she made it safely around the side of the village, she could find a hidden vantage point and hold back any aggressors from her family home… That’s if it was still standing, she reminded herself, cursing her indecision. By the time she’d picked her way through the brush, she might be too late to help at all.
Isolde’s mind was made up for her by the sound of a familiar voice nearby. It was her neighbour, Rider, a red haired, broad shouldered boy of about her age. From the sound of his urgent cries, the time to creep away quietly had come and gone. The fighting was about to reach her.
“Stand your ground!” called Rider, “Get ready to push them back!”
Isolde unshouldered her bow and drew an arrow from her quiver. She dropped to a low stance, ready to fire her weapon in an instant, as if closing in on moving prey. Then she jogged forwards into the suddenly unfamiliar streets of the only home she had ever known.
She found Rider in a line of other young men she knew well, all armed with bows and daggers of their own. They were standing, tense and ready for action, a few yards from a wall of smoke that obscured the view beyond. They looked fearful and shaken by whatever they’d seen. None more so than her neighbour, Penrick, a popular joker but a useless archer, as everyone in Lambley knew. He was quivering like a sapling in a storm. The whole village must be aflame if even Penrick had taken up arms in its defence, Isolde realised, and her heart leapt into her throat as she wondered impotently about her family’s fate.
“Rider!” she called, as she raced to his side. He nodded a greeting then turned back to the wall of smoke, his face fixed in a look of grim determination. “What is this?” Isolde begged, “What’s happening?”
“An army,” said Rider, not breaking his gaze, “An army of the undead. They attacked without warning or mercy.”
Isolde’s head spun. Bone soldiers? She opened her mouth to speak. “Un-”
“Don’t ask me,” snapped Rider, “That’s all I know. Plucked from the grave and armed against us, it seems, though only the Gods know by whom. And a fair meal they’ve made of us, too. The Great Hall is razed to the ground and half of our people slain.”
“I have to get home,” said Isolde, purposefully, “I have to help.”
“Then help us first, Isolde Hart,” said Rider, gravely, “In a moment you’ll know what we’re up against. Look forward into the smoke, and draw your bow. You’ll never reach your family if we all fall here.”
Isolde started to speak, but the look on Rider’s face convinced her to stay silent. She took up position beside him in the defensive line and peered into the smoky air. Feeling her heart pound in her chest. Waiting for the enemy to reveal itself.
For what seemed like the longest time, there was nothing but the breathing of the men in her ears, and the sound of fighting further off, in other corners of the burning village. Then she heard it. A scraping, scratching sound like branches being dragged behind a cart. The clank of steel and the crunch, crunch, crunch of chain mail on marching troops. And something else too; the hollow clatter of old, dry bones, like a fortune teller’s scrying runes, rattling around in a fired clay pot.
Isolde pulled back the string of her bow; felt the energy trapped in its straining sinews. She squinted into the swirling smoke and shapes began to appear. Blurred at first, and hard to make out. They were the figures of men, she thought, marching with slow purpose towards them, not running as she expected them to do in such close combat. She took aim at the figure directly in front of her and waited. Slowly, inexorably, the figure emerged from the smoke. It was a soldier, clad in bronze armor and armed with a bloodied spear. His helmet sat on a skull of bleached bone, and his rusted mail was stretched over a cage of white ribs like the hull of a buckskin canoe.
“Any more questions?” asked Rider, lifting a crossbow to his shoulder.
“How do you kill them?” asked Isolde, flexing trembling fingers against her bowstring and blinking hot tears of anger and dread out of her eyes.
“Take their head off is the best way,” said Rider, “How’s your aim?”
“Worry about your own aim,” said Isolde, feeling her resolve harden, “I shot a stag through the heart at a hundred paces an hour ago. If you live long enough, I’ll share the meat with you.”
Isolde took a deep breath to steady her nerves. Her fingers twitched and her bowstring twanged. As the skeletal soldier loomed out of the smoke, its sword raised to attack, Isolde’s arrow hit it square in the throat, severing its spine and sending the grinning head rolling into the road. The rest of it dropped into a lifeless heap where it stood.
“Nice shot,” said Rider, reloading his crossbow and firing into the advancing troops.
“What did you expect?” asked Isolde, stringing another arrow, and another, and another, as she let off a volley of shots that sheared the heads of the strange undead attackers as soon as they emerged from the smoke, so that their bones piled up like firewood, “I’ve beaten you in the annual tournament every year since we were six, or had you forgotten?”
Rider snorted in reply and reloaded his crossbow. Wave upon wave of undead troopers marched out of the fog, scrambling over their fallen comrades and advancing slowly but surely. By the time their numbers were nearly exhausted, the last of them were scarcely a sword’s length from the line of young archers and crossbowmen, and still they marched on, straight into the arrows and bolts that cut them down. When it was over, Isolde’s quiver was empty, and her fingers were blistered and bloodied from firing her bow. She fell backwards onto the ground and sat in the dirt, staring at her shaking hands and at the bones that littered the road.
“Thank you, Isolde Hart,” said Rider, dropping to one knee beside her, “Your family would be proud of your courage.”
“My family!” Isolde spat, coming quickly to her senses, “Will! I have to know if they’re okay!”
“Come with us,” said Rider, gesturing with one hand for the boys to follow him and holding out the other to pull Isolde to her feet, “And stay close. There may be more of those bony bastards to deal with.”
They crept shoulder-to-shoulder through the narrow streets of Lambley, covering their faces and holding their breath as they pushed through patches of thick smoke, staying in the shadows when possible, and approaching every corner with caution. Here and there, there were pockets of fighting. The villagers had the upper hand, it seemed - their infernal enemy’s numbers were exhausted and their bones littered the ground like chestnuts in the fall - but the cost of victory had been great.
Everywhere she looked, Isolde saw the twisted faces of dead and dying men, the blood from their terrible wounds running in little rivulets along the street and pooling between the cobbles. As they skirted the charred remains of the blacksmith’s workshop, Isolde saw out of the corner of her eye the hacked and bloodied body of the huge, muscular smith, Stein, and turned her head to avoid the horror. A gargled voice snapped her to attention.
“Isolde Hart…” the smith spluttered, and she turned back towards the mangled Stein, still living by some miracle, but not for long.
“Be still,” said Isolde softly, kneeling beside Stein’s slumped form while Rider kept watch with his crossbow at the ready, “The battle is all but won, friend.”
“Your uncle,” Stein gasped, “rallied the defense at the Great Hall. When it burned, he fell back to defend your home.”
“Is he okay?” Isolde reeled at the thought of her beloved uncle coming to harm. He and her aunt had been like parents to Isolde since her father’s duties called him to Luxis years ago. Her mother she had never known, as the burden of childbirth had proved too much for her. She lived just long enough to meet her daughter, and name her Isolde.
The smith’s breathing was ragged and his pain was obvious, but he struggled on.
“Aye, in our hour of need. Your aunt led the children into the woods when the attack began. I know not what became of your uncle…”
And with that, the effort became too much. The smith’s muscular shoulders slumped as his final breath rattled under ribs cracked and splintered by an enemy axe. Isolde stood up, wiped her hands on her breeches and turned to Rider.
“I need to know that my uncle is safe.”
They ran the rest of the way, confident that danger had passed, but fearful of what they might find at the Hart home. As they rounded the turn that brought them to her door, Isolde’s heart sank. The house had burned to the ground, like so many others. Nothing remained but the stone chimney and a pile of charred beams. She stood and stared at the dark patch where her home had been, and a tear rolled down her cheek, leaving a sooty trail. Then a hand, heavy and familiar, landed on her shoulder and spun her gently around. And a smile she feared she might never see again beamed down at her, warmly.
“Uncle?”
“Isolde, my little dragon slayer,” said her Uncle John, pulling her into his arms and holding her tightly against his chest, “I knew you’d come through.”
“Uncle, where are Will and-”
“Shhh,” said John, stroking her brown hair, “Safe. They’re safe. Your aunt knows the woods better than anyone. She led the young ones to sanctuary as soon as the first arrow was fired.”
“Oh God,” Isolde sobbed into his chest, “I was so worried. I thought you were all dead. I met a cruel stranger who-”
Suddenly, Isolde’s uncle pushed her away. He held a finger to her lips for silence, and cocked his head to the wind.
“You,” he said, pointing at Isolde, Rider and his ragtag army of boys. The woodsman’s manner was suddenly alert and brisk, “Head south into the forest. Isolde, find your aunt’s trail. She will have covered her tracks as she fled, but left a few tells for a Lambley eye to catch.”
“But,” Isolde protested.
“Go!” he shouted.
Isolde spun on her heels and jogged off towards the fringe of trees to the south, her mind spinning, but before she had gone twenty paces, she was stopped in her tracks. For a moment it seemed as if the trees themselves were moving. Then the awful truth dawned on her as rank after rank of the ghastly skeletal warriors pushed through the tree line and trudged mindlessly towards her.
“Uncle John!” she yelled, racing back to be by his side and drawing her bow on the approaching enemy.
“It looks like we will stand or fall together after all, daughter,” said John sternly, but the love showed in his eyes. “May your aim be true.”
“And yours, uncle,” said Isolde as she let fly an arrow that took off the head of the nearest undead soldier.
The Harts fought well, back to back with Rider and the boys fighting beside them, all three firing and turning in a slow circle as the skeletal soldiers pressed in from every direction. For a while things went well. Their arrows met their mark and row after row of the advancing skeletal army fell around them.
“We’re doing it!” shouted Penrick, “We’re actually beating them! Ha!”
He felt in his quiver for another arrow, but it was empty. Turning his head, he called to his friends, “Somebody give me an arr-” but the word never left his mouth. A dagger, thrown by a bone soldier, lodged itself in his chest with a stomach-churning ‘thunk’. He glanced down in confusion at the blood seeping out from his chest, around the buried metal of the blade. He opened and closed his mouth, silently, pleading for help with his eyes. Then he toppled backwards and was dead before his body hit the ground.
“Penrick!” cried Rider! “Damn it! No!”
Shaken by the death of their friend, the boys still fought on, but one by one, they ran out of arrows to keep the bone soldiers at bay.
They watched the perimeter of scattered bones close in until it was just a few feet away, with the enemy still coming, then with the last arrows fired, they shouldered their useless bows and drew their long daggers, ready to die together on their feet and fighting. Isolde heard her uncle’s breathing quicken behind her; heard the sound of his dagger turning away larger enemy blades. She closed her eyes and waited for death. But death did not come.
A blue light, bluer than the summer sky and brighter than the sun, filled her gaze and all about her seemed to freeze. The advancing skeletons were locked in position, bony fingers curled around the hilts of their raised swords, ready to strike. Her uncle was still too, his face caught in a mask of anger and repulsion, his dagger thrust out to glance off the polished ribs of his attacker. And there was Rider, stood like a statue with his crossbow raised and the bolt halfway along the shaft. It was as if Isolde were looking at a scene caught in amber. Then, out of the stillness and the silence, came the robed figure of a pale, bearded man, the brilliant blue light emanating from the staff he carried.
“Don’t be afraid, Isolde Hart,” said the man, “Do you not recognize your father, Belloc, Guardian of Luxis? You have fought well today and brought honour to your family and your people, but your true fight lies elsewhere, daughter.”
“Father?” Isolde stood open mouthed.
“Aye,” said Belloc, “The Angeli got word of the Dark Lord’s plans. The war gathers pace throughout the lands, Isolde. And you have a special part to play in it.”
With one swift movement, the Ice Mage brought his staff down upon the ground, so that the earth itself seemed to shake beneath it. The blue light swelled and churned, and with a clap of thunder the sky opened, showering the bones soldiers with great shards ice that shattered them where they stood, frozen in the act of attacking the brave villagers.
“How?” Isolde spluttered, dumbfounded.
“An Ice Mage has many powers, daughter. Now come, there is no time to lose. Once we have departed, your uncle and your friends here will be freed from their stupor. The true danger lies where you and I must venture.”
Belloc raised his staff above his head and began to chant softly as a vortex of swirling energy took form out of air around him, resolving into a sort of circular, liquid doorway, like a whirlpool turned on its side.
“Step through the portal, Isolde, and embrace your destiny!” roared the Ice Mage above the crackling hurricane noise of the whirlpool.
“But father, what about Will? What about-” Isolde began, but Belloc simply raised his hand, touched a finger to his lips and called out again.
“Your brother has a different fate, though I assure you he is safe for now, at least. Your story, not his, begins today!”
There was a tremendous flash of light as Isolde felt herself drawn into the whirlpool. For a moment all was blackness and void. Then, with a ripping sound like silk caught on a nail, she was spat out onto a hard stone floor. Isolde clambered to her feet and rubbed her eyes. The forest, the village, her home, her father, everything was gone. And in its place, a dark, vast cavern with rough stone walls, lined with flickering torches.
“Hello?” she called, tentatively, fingering her weapon nervously as she looked about, “Is anybody there?”
From a dark corner of the vast room came a low groan, and a scraping sound like one of the undead soldiers dragging his boney feet along the flagstones.
“Sorry I asked,” said Isolde. She raised her bow and stepped into the darkness...
<<< Chapter 1 : War Reaches Lambley >>> Chapter 3 : Into the Fire
