Chapter 14d: Race to the Palace

Piet Lithor stood near the front of the motley group, sword in hand. He glanced at one of the soldiers to see if he held the weapon correctly. The man saw his glance and smiled, crooked teeth shone through bristly beard, shaking his sword back and forth before him with bravado. Let’s go kill us some undead. The Piet gripped his sword tighter and decided to look somewhere else.

The survivors stood behind the double wooden doors, nervously waiting for Stiles to open them so they could begin their run for the Palace. A sad little group indeed. Bos Spielter stood to the side with a table leg in a knuckle-whitening grasp. A woman with an infant stayed in the middle of the group, holding the baby close to her breasts. Brother Cylus stood next to the Piet, a steak knife protruding above his cloth belt. The young man, Tollis Mayer actually looked excited about the prospect of leaving the temple in the company of the brave men. The Piet turned his head to the group of soldiers that milled around the outside of the group. City guards, not palace guards, real soldiers, or mercenaries. Just city guards. The fact that Duke Renier had sent city guards to rescue the Piet spoke volumes about the state of the Palace. The situation didn’t look good at all.

Stiles waved to his men to get ready, then turned to the dozen survivors. "Just stay grouped together. Keep up with us and don’t get out of the group. We’re going to go to the palace and a brisk walk, but we won’t run unless we have to, so just follow my lead and everything should work out fine."

He nodded to his men again before turning and opening the door. Stiles’ head disappeared around the corner of the door as he looked about, then pulled his head back and waved everyone on. "Okay, let’s do this."

One by one they walked through the door and into the night. The first thing Lithor noticed was the brisk breeze blowing in from the port, carrying the salty sea smell and dead fish. Tree limbs swayed back and forth, giving the surrounding woods an eerie life of their own. He looked deep into those woods as he set his foot onto the road, hoping to see the shadowed forest free of undead, but just as afraid not to see where they hid. He gripped the sword tighter in his pudgy grasp and followed Stiles over the cobbled road.

Everyone huddled close together, a mass of bodies moving forward. The guards remained on the outside perimeter, bows held ready and eyes constantly scanning back and forth over the floor of the forest. They looked as scared as the crowd they guarded. Their gazes didn’t burrow into the woods like a predator would. No, their nervous glances flagged them as prey, skittishly trying to get past the lair of a hungry beast. The Piet didn’t have much faith in this rag-tag group, but there weren’t a lot of other options. He tried to push the fear out of his mind by concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. The great Lord Vaspar would see him through.

A guard in the back of the group gasped. The twang of a bowstring followed by the thunk of an arrow splitting flesh brought everyone to a halt. Hundreds of dark figures stumbled from the woods onto the trail behind the group. The moon highlighted the tops of their heads, their shoulders, and their raised arms. Their eyes shined like crisp silver, coins for their voyage to the afterlife.

All the guards raised their bows, strings pulled into V’s.

"Lower your bows!" Stiles hissed.

Six bows lowered, but the strings remained pulled tight. Everyone turned to Stiles.

"Let's save the fight for when it’s necessary. If we speed up we should stay ahead of them." Without looking to see if anyone followed his order he turned and began jogging toward the palace. Everyone followed his lead, glancing over their shoulders to make sure the undead hadn’t caught up.

Lithor's confidence in the young commander rose as he struggled to keep up. The man had made the right decision, choosing not to begin a battle that would do nothing but slow them down. He just hoped that Stiles had enough skill as a leader to get them to the palace.

Bushes shook to the Piet's left. The undead spilled onto the road behind the rear soldiers as if the forest had decided to vomit their filth from its midst, to purge their vile flesh from its natural beauty.

His heart raced. Blood pounded in his ears and sweat burned his eyes as he looked ahead and saw the palace walls getting closer in the distance. His heavy form wasn’t made for such a long run and he slowly fell further toward the back of the group, almost to the rearguard. His side felt like someone had reached under his lowest rib and pulled. Sweat drenched his clothes, a combination of overexertion and fear. His heart pounded harder. He could feel each pulse as it thrummed against his temple. He wasn’t going to make it to the palace. The great Piet Lithor would die within sight of the walls, almost in their shadow. It wasn’t fair. He deserved bet...

He stumbled into the woman with the baby, causing it to let out a shrill wail then a cry that almost became lost in the panting group.

They had stopped.

He bent over, placing both hands on his knees, staring at the ground. The sudden stop made him feel feverish. His stomach clenched, his last meal rose up his throat and splashed onto the ground in front of him. He ignored the mess and looked over his shoulder. The undead had stopped.

He stood, wiping the filth from his half-open mouth and gawking at the undead. They stared back, pinpricks of silver against grisly silhouettes.

Stiles shout rose over the wailing baby and panting people. "Move aside and let us pass."

The Piet spun around; the sudden movement made his head swirl with dizziness. Stiles faced a large man in archaic armor. The armored form stood at least six and a half feet tall. The moonlight cut his face into blacks and whites, an older man with a stern face that seemed to be chiseled out of stone. His thick arms crossed over his chest, the skin rough textured, like parchment. A sad smile crossed his cracked lips. "I am truly sorry, but I can’t allow you to go any farther."