Men who could not leave the trappings of flesh, meanwhile imbued with the ability to feel every bit of pain and think the same fallible thoughts—neither good nor evil, merely ordinary human.
And now, the scene on the bank of the lake was that of military disaster. Soldiers had all broken ranks at this point, the living shying away in terrified suspicion from those around them they deemed dead, when sometimes it were themselves. Men looked closely at those nearest them, at themselves, at their noble Lord and his son.
Some wept and embraced like brothers, forgetting mortal shame. For, in the torch-lit winter night, next to a field of recent battle, this was a time of intimacy. Tears came from what remaining fluids their poor broken bodies still held in reserve. Tears flowed and froze against cold dead skin—for some, their last tears, for when their internal water was depleted the dead body would process no more. And they did not know it yet; if they did, would they save their tears?
Suddenly, in a loud rasping voice, Hoarfrost said, “Enough!” His timbre was different from the first attempts moments ago; it was now fixed in that new mode, as though the peculiar voice came as a result of turning machinery, hand-cranked gears. And it was once again strong and sure, as it had been when he was alive and cantankerous with passion.
In a steady inevitable motion, like ice transforming water, the tall, heavy-set man raised his massive hands above his head to signal for attention.
And then, turning his body still awkwardly to face his dazed son, he said: “My horse, Beltain. Bring me my horse. Now!”
There was a moment of pause, during which decisions were made that would change everything—or not.
“My . . . Lord,” Beltain replied, after a deep shuddering breath of winter air. “I know not what has come to pass here, with you, with all of them. But I am yours, and . . . I obey.”
With those words, Beltain turned to the knights at his side and gave the command. In moments the Duke’s great charger was brought forward. The noble war-beast had escaped the cracked fissure of ice earlier while its master had not been so lucky. And now the horse snorted in confusion, for it could smell nothing but fresh blood and brackish lake water from the man-shape of his former master that now stood before it. And when Duke Hoarfrost neared the horse and mounted, it neighed in sheer terror, but stood its ground. Even the weight of this rider was different, heavy as an anvil.
“Listen to me, my men!” exclaimed Hoarfrost, sitting in the saddle like a boulder. “Something terrible has come to pass this day, this night, to you, to myself, to all of us! If it’s Goraque sorcery, as I suspect, then—as God is my witness—I will find this sorcery and uproot it! Vitalio Goraque will pay for what he did this night!”
The soldiers cheered weakly, most still staggering barely on their feet.
“What’s this? Are you men or drunken wenches?” Hoarfrost roared in his usual command. “Dead or living be damned! Form rank, all of you! And we march home!”
And they complied, coming to attention, lining up in their proper order the best they could. Beltain took his cue, and so did the other captain knights. Under their orders the army started to come back together, despite everything. In fact this normalcy helped.
Yet while they picked themselves up, and cavalry then foot soldiers started to advance back inland away from the shore, torches flickering orange, there were still moans and hushed whispers. Quite a few men had to carry each other, due to severed body parts, torn off limbs, for there were no crutches for so many. Some of the most seriously dismembered had to be carried alongside their own heads; the heads looked on sadly, eyes unblinking, mute—for they were separated from the throat and larynx and the nerves severed—and yet, somehow, they were aware.
It was the stuff of nightmares.
Hoarfrost took his usual
And now, the scene on the bank of the lake was that of military disaster. Soldiers had all broken ranks at this point, the living shying away in terrified suspicion from those around them they deemed dead, when sometimes it were themselves. Men looked closely at those nearest them, at themselves, at their noble Lord and his son.
Some wept and embraced like brothers, forgetting mortal shame. For, in the torch-lit winter night, next to a field of recent battle, this was a time of intimacy. Tears came from what remaining fluids their poor broken bodies still held in reserve. Tears flowed and froze against cold dead skin—for some, their last tears, for when their internal water was depleted the dead body would process no more. And they did not know it yet; if they did, would they save their tears?
Suddenly, in a loud rasping voice, Hoarfrost said, “Enough!” His timbre was different from the first attempts moments ago; it was now fixed in that new mode, as though the peculiar voice came as a result of turning machinery, hand-cranked gears. And it was once again strong and sure, as it had been when he was alive and cantankerous with passion.
In a steady inevitable motion, like ice transforming water, the tall, heavy-set man raised his massive hands above his head to signal for attention.
And then, turning his body still awkwardly to face his dazed son, he said: “My horse, Beltain. Bring me my horse. Now!”
There was a moment of pause, during which decisions were made that would change everything—or not.
“My . . . Lord,” Beltain replied, after a deep shuddering breath of winter air. “I know not what has come to pass here, with you, with all of them. But I am yours, and . . . I obey.”
With those words, Beltain turned to the knights at his side and gave the command. In moments the Duke’s great charger was brought forward. The noble war-beast had escaped the cracked fissure of ice earlier while its master had not been so lucky. And now the horse snorted in confusion, for it could smell nothing but fresh blood and brackish lake water from the man-shape of his former master that now stood before it. And when Duke Hoarfrost neared the horse and mounted, it neighed in sheer terror, but stood its ground. Even the weight of this rider was different, heavy as an anvil.
“Listen to me, my men!” exclaimed Hoarfrost, sitting in the saddle like a boulder. “Something terrible has come to pass this day, this night, to you, to myself, to all of us! If it’s Goraque sorcery, as I suspect, then—as God is my witness—I will find this sorcery and uproot it! Vitalio Goraque will pay for what he did this night!”
The soldiers cheered weakly, most still staggering barely on their feet.
“What’s this? Are you men or drunken wenches?” Hoarfrost roared in his usual command. “Dead or living be damned! Form rank, all of you! And we march home!”
And they complied, coming to attention, lining up in their proper order the best they could. Beltain took his cue, and so did the other captain knights. Under their orders the army started to come back together, despite everything. In fact this normalcy helped.
Yet while they picked themselves up, and cavalry then foot soldiers started to advance back inland away from the shore, torches flickering orange, there were still moans and hushed whispers. Quite a few men had to carry each other, due to severed body parts, torn off limbs, for there were no crutches for so many. Some of the most seriously dismembered had to be carried alongside their own heads; the heads looked on sadly, eyes unblinking, mute—for they were separated from the throat and larynx and the nerves severed—and yet, somehow, they were aware.
It was the stuff of nightmares.
Hoarfrost took his usual
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