Chapter 10: Nightfall

“Those who are not scouting will remain here to reinforce the camp,” Kuruk said as he addressed his war party from atop the wall. “Your goal will be to locate the Blighter camp, and once that is done, you will find a nearby area where the plan that we outlined can be enacted. You must go unseen, as your very presence could alert the enemy of our intentions and put them on alert. Go now, and be swift. Reconvene here in two sunsets, regardless of what you find.”

Tia leaned closer to give George a quick peck on the cheek, sharing a lingering glance with him for a moment. As one of her people’s best scouts, she had been ordered out into the wilderness. They had protected one another up until now. Neither one of them would have survived without the other, so being separated felt wrong to George. It was Kuruk’s decree, however. Nothing could be done about it.

“I will return to you safely,” she insisted in an attempt to reassure him. “I am considered among the best trackers in my village.”

“What if something happens, and I’m not there to help?” George asked as he watched several of the cloaked figures scale the wall. They raced off towards the forest, leaping over the decaying bodies of the Blighters that still lay there from the previous night’s battle.

“I worry more for you,” she replied. “The Blighters know of this place, and their attacks are frequent. Stay close to your friend Sam. He seems reliable.”

George nodded, releasing her hand. She gave him a determined nod, then threw up her hood, heading for the wall with her springy gait. She cleared the mound of earth with ease, then made for the trees beyond the clearing, disappearing into the darkness.

“Alright, men,” Dawes bellowed as he climbed the wall beside Kuruk. “You know the drill by now. I want guards with eyes on the treeline while the rest of you help move the bodies for cremation. We don’t need them gettin’ up and walking around again. There aren’t enough bullets left to kill everyone twice.”

George joined the group of men as they climbed over the wall with far less grace than their long-legged counterparts, marching through the mud. He could smell the stink of the bodies already, but experience had taught him not to trust that scent. In this forest, just because someone was long-dead didn’t mean that they weren’t going to suddenly climb to their feet and start fighting again.

“Try not to get any of that black shit on you,” Dawes shouted, but it seemed like an unrealistic prospect. As far as George knew, there was no sickness, and one had to die before the blight would claim them. It was probably safe enough to handle the bodies. At least, no more dangerous than handling normal bodies.

Sam found him, aiding him in his efforts to shift a Blighter who had a fist-sized cavity in his chest. George gave him an appreciative nod as he took the body by its legs, George grabbing the arms, the two of them shuffling over to a pyre that was being assembled from dead branches nearby.

“Do you have to do this after every battle?” George grunted, the two men swinging the body onto the heap. George dusted off his hands, Sam following him to the next corpse.

“Pretty much,” he replied. “We learned the hard way what happens if you leave ‘em out here too long.”

They stooped beside the next body, this one mostly headless, heaving it off the mud. There was a reason people used the term dead weight. Bodies were unexpectedly heavy.

“So, what’s goin’ on between you and that deer girl?” Sam muttered as they carried the corpse. “You two seem pretty close. Closer’n friends, I mean.”

George wasn’t sure how to respond, his cheeks warming. He hadn’t put a great deal of thought into what the other men would think of his relationship. He had already impressed upon Tia that public displays of affection weren’t the norm for his people, so she had remained rather subdued during her time at the camp. That said, there was no precedent for lying with other species, regardless of how alluring they were.

“We ... got pretty close during our time together,” George replied. “You know what it’s like, sharing a tent, depending on each other to survive...”

“I dunno if you’ve noticed, George,” Sam grunted as they tossed the next body onto the heap. “But you ain’t in Albion anymore, and I ain’t no goddamned ... courtier, or whatever the hell you people call each other. Most of these men pay for women like they pay for shoelaces and liquor, so I ain’t gonna judge you for goin’ after a native. Even one that has ... deer legs.”

“She’s actually really great,” George explained as they proceeded to the next body. “I’ve never met a woman like her before, someone who isn’t afraid to get their hands dirty, who’s willing to fight alongside the men. She’s also graceful, pretty...”

“Better lookin’ that a lot of the women back East,” Sam chuckled as he helped drag the deceased Blighter. “So ... how much of her is deer, and how much of her is woman? What kinda ratio are we talkin’ here?”

“I don’t think she’d appreciate me talking to you about that,” George chuckled.

When all of the bodies had been moved, the fire was lit, and the men retreated to the camp to escape the smell of burning flesh. George would have assumed that the blighted wood would have been tough to ignite, but it seemed to burn unexpectedly well. The blaze wouldn’t get hot enough to destroy the bodies completely, but it would hopefully damage them enough that there wasn’t much left to resurrect. Even if the undead were animated by dark magic, they still needed muscles to move around.

The guards on watch were a blend of human and forest folk now, their eyes scanning the treeline beyond, bows and rifles at the ready.

“How often did you say the Blighters attacked the camp?” George asked warily as they passed the sharpened stakes that had been driven into the earthen barrier.

“They’ve come every night for the last three days,” Sam replied, taking his hand to help him over the wall. “They surprised us on the first night, but they haven’t gotten too far since then. Bastards are bloodthirsty. They don’t even seem to care that they’re chargin’ straight into gunfire.”

“Think of it from their perspective,” George mused. “If you worship the concept of death, and you’ve seen your slain friends raised to fight again, the idea of being killed probably isn’t that great of a deterrent.”

“Dawes says they’re testin’ us,” Sam continued, George following him past the nearby tents. “He reckons they’re probin’ our defenses, gettin’ ready for somethin’ big.”

“They’re in the same situation that we are,” George replied with a nod. “They want to assault our camp, clear us out.”

“I dunno why they wouldn’t just let us leave,” Sam sighed. “Why stop an enemy from retreatin’?”

“Because each person they kill is raised again as an undead soldier, or used as an offering to their dark god. We’re a resource to them, just like timber or coal.”

“To think I used to call the natives back East barbaric for fightin’ settlers over land claims,” Sam muttered with a shake of his head. “I’d give anythin’ to be arguin’ over a patch of dirt right now. There ain’t even anythin’ we can give the Blighters, no way to appease ‘em.”

“So much for all those silver trinkets we bought for bartering, right?” George chuckled

“Better enjoy the daylight while you can,” Sam added ominously. “As soon as the sun goes down and that fog rolls in, I have a feelin’ they’ll be back.”

It was nightfall, and George could feel the tension in the camp, so thick that one could have cut it with a knife. He was reminded of the memoirs of a soldier that he had read once, a man who had fought for the empire on some continental battlefield a world away. The author had described the most harrowing aspect of warfare not as the cries of wounded men or the cacophony of gunfire, nor as the prospect of imminent death. It was the waiting that had driven men mad, the uncertainty of not knowing when battle would be joined, when the enemy might come marching over the hill in tight formation with their muskets drawn.

George was feeling a little of that now, a distracting restlessness that told him it might be preferable to go striding into the woods in search of death if it meant taking action. He knew better than to entertain such thoughts, but they weighed on him all the same. He was already missing Tia, and the idea of her being out there all alone in the dark would drive him to distraction if he didn’t focus on the here and now.

“Try to eat,” Sam said, passing him a bowl of soup. “You need your strength.”

George took the bowl from him and fished out a piece of meat with his spoon, watching the flames of the campfire lick at the air. Most of the men were sitting around making idle conversation, others cleaning guns or sharpening bayonets, the rest peering over the perimeter wall. The ever-present fog had rolled in once again, lingering at the limits of the fire’s warmth, almost as if it was afraid of its heat. It clouded the trees and blotted out the stars, making the night far darker than it would have been otherwise.

“Maybe they won’t attack tonight,” George added with a shrug.

“I almost hope they do,” Sam replied. “The more of those bastards are attackin’ us here, the less of ‘em are out there for the scouts to deal with.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

George glanced over as someone sat down beside him, his own bowl clutched in his hands. It was Marshall, the man giving him a friendly nudge with his elbow.

“Glad to have you back, Mister Ardwin,” he began. “We thought we’d lost you in the riverbed.”

“I’m glad to see that you all made it back safely,” George replied.

“So, it seems you’ve been livin’ out your fantasies of making new discoveries in virgin lands,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Has it been everythin’ that you hoped?”

“Oh, I’ve been having a ball,” George grumbled. “I suppose it’s true what they say, that you should be careful what you wish for.”

“Could have been worse,” Marshall replied, eating a spoonful of his watery soup.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asked. “How?”

“At least we’re gettin’ paid if we make it through this. That was true what you said, right, Ardwin? Those deer-people have a mountain of gold?”

“On my honor,” George replied. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw it. Entire veins of gold just sitting out in the open, completely untouched. It’s less valuable to them than the stone they use to make their blades. When I suggested they use it to pay the company, they couldn’t understand why you’d want it.”

“Well, I’m happy to help take it off their hands,” Marshall chuckled as he ate another mouthful of soup. “If we make it through this, that is.”

“What are you gonna do with your share?” Sam asked, making conversation.

“Pay off all my debts, then buy a little patch of land somewhere that I can call my own. Get a wife, raise a couple of kids. Nothin’ too excitin’.”

“Gonna build a log cabin?” Sam asked.

“Fuck no,” Marshall chuckled. “With the kind of money we’ll be walkin’ away with, I can pay somebody else to do that for me.”

A sudden shout rang out, one of the men on the far side of the wall raising the alarm.

“Movement in the trees!”

Dawes was quick to react, his own voice rising above the muffled conversations.

“Hold your fire! It might be our scouts comin’ back!”

George, Sam, and Marshall leapt to their feet. Their rifles were on hand, and they raised them, running to the foot of the wall where a crowd was forming. Kuruk jumped up onto the mound of earth beside Dawes, his bow drawn as he peered into the shadowy trees beyond. With the oppressive darkness that the mist created, the only real illumination came from the campfire behind them, which barely even made it past the tents.

“The scouts would have declared themselves by now,” Kuruk muttered, nocking an arrow.

George spotted movement between the dark trunks, something pale catching the dim light.

“To arms!” Dawes shouted, the company forming a staggered firing line. There were a series of mechanical clicks as they loaded and cocked their weapons, the men squinting as they took aim. “Wait until they come within about a hundred feet,” he added. “Don’t waste your charges. We have to conserve as much ammunition as we can.”

George positioned himself between Sam and Marshall, the men standing shoulder to shoulder as they peered out into the forest.

“Are they really just going to run straight at us?” he whispered.

“I hope so,” Marshall replied. “I don’t want any surprises.”

Slowly, the familiar ashen skin of the Blighters came into view, their bodies painted with white paste. It might have made them stand out against the gloom like ghosts under different circumstances, but it camouflaged them in the fog, the obscuring mist swirling around them. There were dozens that George could see, and likely more behind them, waiting at the edge of the clearing with spears and clubs drawn.

“What are they waitin’ for?” Marshall whispered. “Why aren’t they attackin’?”

A mournful cry rang out through the forest, but it was no Blighter whistle. It sounded like the cry of a hottah in distress, an odd flanging accompanying it that made it sound as though more than one of the beasts was wailing in chorus. It was a sound that George had heard before, the hairs on his arms standing on end as a wave of fear washed over him.

Before he could call out a warning, something large came lumbering out of the mist. He beheld a hulking mass of discolored flesh, rippling muscles crisscrossed by surging veins, strips of decaying meat visible between the breaks in its mottled skin. There were patches of matted fur in places, sparse, discolored by the black sludge that characterized the blight. He could see its mismatched body parts shifting as it staggered out from between the trees, the beast an amalgam of dead creatures that had been merged together, a product of dark magic and unspeakable desecration. The pale bones of rib cages were visible where no ribs should have been, the limbs of forest animals dangling from its body like vestigial growths, antlers jutting from its sloughing hide at random. None of it made any anatomical sense to George’s educated eye, yet still it lived, a stark rebuke of natural law.

Its forelimbs were impossibly long, jointed in too many places, like the legs of some terrible insect. Instead of toes, it had fingers made from the hoofed legs of hottah, which crawled along the ground with the same repellent gait of a spider shooting out from beneath a bookcase. Its massive shoulder blades rose into the air to tower above it, piercing through its flesh, its vertebra breaking the skin to create jutting spines that ran down its back.

Its head was that of an especially large hottah, the skull almost laid bare as its meat rotted away, ropes of black tar drooping from its lipless jaws like slaver. Its eyes were milky, glassy, more akin to those of a corpse that had been dredged from a lake than anything alive. Branching out from its head were a set of impressive antlers, more seeming to sprout from its skull in unnatural places. Some of them were growing from the empty eye sockets of what appeared to be a human visage that had blended with its brow like two clay sculptures being mashed together, its expression contorted in agony. Had they used the body parts of their own kin in the creation of this horror?

Upon its horns were lengths of hanging rope and strips of what might be entrails, along with more of the Blighter charms. Runic symbols made from bent twigs dangled from the prongs, swinging as it walked, as though the savages had anointed the thing as part of some unholy ceremony.

Its jaws creaked open, displaying a mouthful of fangs that did not belong on a herbivore, uttering another guttural shriek that stabbed at his heart like an icy blade.

“What the fuck,” was all that Marshall could muster, his hands shaking as he gripped his rifle tightly.

“Is that what you saw in the forest?” Sam whispered, his voice wavering. “That’s what attacked your camp?”

“Something like that, yeah,” George replied as he pulled his stock tight against his shoulder. “Aim for the head!” he continued, raising his voice so that the rest of the men could hear him. “The one that we killed only went down when it had practically been decapitated!”

“Hold your fire until they’re closer!” Dawes called, sensing the fear that was sweeping through the ranks. The abomination was not only a formidable weapon, but a psychological one, too. If the line broke and the men fled, this battle would be lost before a single shot had been fired.

“Warriors, aim for the Blighters!” Kuruk added as he addressed his war party from atop the wall. There were around a dozen of them still defending the camp, the rest of them having been sent off on the scouting mission. “Let the rifle-wielders deal with the abomination. Your arrows will do little to harm it.”

The familiar scream of a Blighter whistle echoed across the clearing, and upon hearing its signal, the savages began to charge. They poured out of the forest and into the clearing, yelling battle cries as they raised their crude weapons above their heads, their bare feet pounding in the mud. There must have been fifty or sixty of them, and they were maybe two hundred feet away now, but they were nearing fast. The abomination seemed indifferent to the tiny humans that were swarming around it, which suggested to George that it was not merely a feral beast, but was driven by some manner of intelligence. Whether that came from the creature itself, or if it was being directed by darker powers, it was impossible to guess.

Kuruk’s warriors were the first to fire, waiting for his command, then loosing a volley of arrows high into the air. After a brief delay, they rained down on the Blighters, the indirect fire sending a handful of them stumbling to the ground. Most of the projectiles missed, embedding themselves in the wet soil, but those that found their mark were driven deep into Blighter flesh. Some were merely wounded, continuing on with the wooden shafts jutting from their backs and shoulders, crimson blood standing out starkly against their ashen body paint. They barely faltered, the pain only seeming to drive them on like the crack of a whip.

“Again!” Kuruk bellowed, the warriors drawing back their strings. The second volley was loosed, George hearing the whiz of the arrows as they sailed over his head. A few more of the charging Blighters were felled, crumpling to the ground as they clutched their wounds, their companions showing no sympathy as they bounded over them. There were no doctors among their ranks, no comrades who might drag the injured to safety, only bloodlust driving them.

“Ready!” Dawes yelled, the men taking aim. “Fire!”

Smoke filled the air as a series of gunshots rang out, bright sparks illuminating the contorted faces of their charging adversaries. Those at the front of the pack crumpled as the airborne balls of lead tore through them, the soft metal tumbling and deforming to tear open vicious wounds in their flesh, blood and viscera spraying those who were unfortunate enough to be standing behind them. Some screamed in pain and alarm as they crashed to the ground, while others were dead before they had even realized they’d been shot.

“Next volley!”

The first row of shooters retreated from the wall, already reloading their weapons, the second stepping forward.

“Ready! Fire!”

Another salvo sent another half dozen Blighters skidding to the mud, but those that fell were quickly replaced, their furious comrades leaping over them as they lay dying. No matter how many were felled, there always seemed to be more ready to fill their boots.

“Fire at will!” Dawes yelled, his rifle rocking back into his shoulder as he loosed another round. “Focus on the big ugly fucker!”

George was already cocking his hammer, rushing back up to the wall. Intermittent smoke clouded his view as the men at his sides fired into the crowd, the arrows from the warriors’ bows singing as they picked out individual Blighters, fire pouring into the enemy from the earthen defenses. The battlefield was already littered with bodies, but even with maybe twenty Blighters dead, two-thirds of their number still remained.

The abomination towered over them, opening its jaws to let out another baleful screech. George turned his sights on it, taking careful aim, then pulling the trigger. He saw a splash of gore as the projectile hit it in the shoulder, but the beast didn’t even flinch. More of the men followed his lead, a series of gunshots tearing at its mottled flesh. It looked like it had been hit by grapeshot, George watching as the wounds bled dark tar, but it could probably have absorbed ten times that number of bullets without going down. It had organs to spare – if the abomination that he had encountered with Tia was anything to go by – redundancy upon redundancy.

“Go for the head!” he reminded them, reaching for another paper charge.

Sam raised his weapon and got off a particularly good shot, which blew off a chunk of its lower jaw, but it wasn’t enough to slow it. In the heat of battle, and with the thing’s lumbering gait, it was no easy target.

The Blighters were at the wall now, some of the hooded warriors tossing their bows aside to draw their long spears. Their enemies were slowed by the sharpened points of the branches that jutted out from the sloping obstacle, having to navigate around them more carefully to avoid being impaled, the incline killing their momentum. The warriors took the opportunity to jab at them viciously with their weapons, the sharpened flint of their tips piercing pallid flesh. They looked like they were spearfishing, standing atop the wall as they thrust down into the growing mass of furious Blighters.

One of the savages tossed a spear like a javelin, the weapon finding its mark as it hit one of the defenders square in the chest. It carried enough force to lift the man off his hoofed feet, sending him flying from the wall. He landed hard, the spear still jutting from his torso, his hands gripping its haft as he wailed in pain.

Daugherty came running, slinging his rifle over his shoulder, kneeling in the mud beside the injured warrior.

George hadn’t the time to watch, one of the Blighters climbing up the wall in front of him, using one of the sharpened branches for leverage. He raised a stone hatchet above his head, shouting a war cry, so close that George could have reached out and touched him.

Marshall lunged in from George’s right, driving a bayonet into the Blighter’s belly, the tribal clutching the wound as he toppled backwards, dropping out of sight.

The forest folk were losing ground now, having to leap back down from the wall as the remaining Blighters scrambled up it from the other side. The men began to retreat, a few more shots sending some of the hatchet-wielding assailants toppling over. The abomination was nearing, but the more immediate threat of the Blighters meant that it had gone mostly ignored.

Close-quarters combat was breaking out now, the warriors leaping out of range, trying to get clear of the larger and more powerful Blighters. George watched one of them get a lucky shot in, driving her spear into a Blighter’s neck, blood spewing from a severed artery as he swung at her blindly with a club. She danced out of his reach, the obsidian tip of her spear stained crimson.

The riflemen pushed forward, meeting the Blighters with their bayonets, more shots ringing out to send their targets slumping against the sloping wall. One of the tribals was caught in the head, fragments of bone and clumps of brain sent spraying as it popped like a cherry.

George skipped back as one of them made a beeline for him, spear at the ready. His white body paint was already stained with flecks of red, his lips pulled back in a grimace, his eyes wild. Sparks flew as George fired, knocking the man off his feet, sending him crashing into the Blighter behind him. Rather than stop to help, his companion shoved him out of the way, raising a club as he launched into a run. George had to abandon his attempt to reload, his heart racing as he braced for a brawl.

An arrow found its mark in the charging savage’s chest, making him stumble, giving George the opportunity to step in for a jab with the butt of his rifle. He felt the man’s nose break under the impact, the force of the blow sending him crumpling to the ground, where he lay wheezing. The haft of the arrow rose and fell with his ragged breath, embedded in a lung. George turned his head to see one of the hooded warriors off to his right, giving him an appreciative nod as he reached for another arrow from his quiver.

“Fall back to the tents!” Dawes shouted.

Intermittent gunfire barked, the air thick with acrid smoke, George retreating back between two of the oilskin tents. These would serve as an obstacle that they could put between themselves and the Blighters, but it wasn’t much.

The abomination was at the wall now, the creature drawing back its long arm, swinging it in a wide arc. It shattered the sharpened branches like matchsticks, sweeping them aside with almost casual ease. Shards of wood embedded themselves in its decayed flesh, but it paid them no mind, lumbering forward. The mound of soil collapsed under its weight, the beast merely wading through their defenses.

There was a gut-wrenching cry of pain from George’s left, and he spun his head around to see one of the riflemen get dragged to the ground by three Blighters, the grinning savages hacking the flailing man to pieces with their hatchets. The sharpened flint cut through flesh just as easily as iron, blood spraying as they butchered him.

Sam was closer than George, shouldering his rifle and firing into them. He caught one, the lead projectile hitting the Blighter with such force that he was sent careening into a nearby tent, its structure collapsing atop him as he knocked one of the supports loose.

“To our rear!” someone shouted, George turning to see that there was a second group of Blighters scaling the wall at the other side of the camp. His blood ran cold as he watched them start to race between the tents, their pale faces lit by the campfire. There were another twenty of them at least.

“Some of the bastards must have snuck around the back!” Marshall huffed, spitting a lead ball into the barrel of his gun. He slammed the butt on the ground, then cocked the hammer, heading for the new attackers. “Come on, Ardwin!”

George nodded, following behind him. A couple more men joined them, Sam included, forming a new firing line. Those at the front took a knee while those at the rear raised their rifles over their heads, another chorus of shots echoing through the camp as they fired in quick succession. Someone missed, tearing a hole in one of the tents, but the rest of the shots found their mark. One of the Blighters was dismembered where they stood, three or four bullets tearing through him, one of his companions plunging head-first into the dirt as most of his face was turned into a bloody crater.

There was chaos now, with no clear battle line, Blighters flooding into the camp from all sides. From behind him, George heard the cry of the abomination, the creature uprooting tents like weeds as it made its way towards a group of warriors. They peppered it with arrows, one brave soul driving his spear into its throat, dark ooze spilling forth to stain the ground beneath it. Like a man swatting a fly, the beast raised one of its spindly forelimbs, crushing the warrior beneath its hand. The rest scattered, fast enough to get clear of it as it let out another screeching call, the sound of it seeming to invigorate the Blighters. This was an avatar of death and decay, like a demigod to them.

The monster turned its milky eyes towards a man who was dueling with a Blighter nearby. He parried a strike from a spear with the barrel of his rifle, throwing his opponent off-balance, then drove his bayonet into his chest.

“Watch out!” George bellowed, but his voice barely carried over the clamor of battle.

Distracted by the now-dead Blighter, the man didn’t see the approaching abomination until it was too late. He looked up to see its open jaws descending towards him, connected only by thin strands of rotting flesh and sinew, its rows of mismatched fangs glinting in the firelight. It bit into his shoulder, lifting him off the ground, shaking him like a dog with an old rope. His arm was torn from the socket, his chest lacerated by the beast’s fangs, the height that he fell from as it tossed him aside enough to shatter bone. He lay there motionless, the creature crushing a tent as it set upon another group of defenders.

“We have to deal with that fuckin’ thing,” Sam grunted, tearing open another paper charge with his teeth.

“How?” Marshall demanded, bringing down a howling Blighter with a well-placed shot to the chest. “It’s the size of a goddamned house!”

It was hard to guess who was winning with everyone scattered around the camp, the Blighters rushing between the tents, Kuruk and his warriors trying to keep their distance as they burned through their supply of arrows.