The Battle of Underbridge

 

“Tris. Tristan. You awake?”

Tristan Southerland lay on his sleeping pallet with his eyes open. He was watching the hulking form of his master, Sir Breen Colf, trying to judge whether the fat knight was asleep or faking it. If he was awake and caught Tristan sneaking out in the middle of the night, the man wouldn't hesitate to dole out a beating. On the other hand, the threat of a beating wouldn't stop Kernard from entering the tent if Tristan failed to reply, and that would still earn him a beating.

Sir Breen rolled onto his back, scratched at his belly with one meaty hand, then let out a bone-rattling snore that was uncomfortably loud in the tight confines of the tent. In a silent, fluid motion Tristan rolled from his pallet onto his feet and ducked under the tent flap into the cool night air.

A night full of promise awaited him. It was unusual for there to be a chill in the air so far south in the Five Kingdoms, but not unheard of. The sky was free of clouds and stars shone out into the night. The moon hung low in the sky, lazily watching over the world in its eternal vigil.

Kernard Wulfden stood beside Tristan, waiting for his friend to acknowledge him. Tristan waited, he knew how much Kernard hated being ignored.

Tristan glanced at his friend; it always struck Tristan that Kernard was the very definition of plain. He was of average height with short brown hair, brown eyes, and a dull face considered neither handsome nor ugly. He had recently taken to sporting a mess of wispy hairs on his chin that he refused to shave, claiming it was a beard.

“Sorry, Kernard,” Tristan said with a grin. “I didn't notice you standing there.”

“Yeah, right.” Kernard swung a hefty punch at Tristan's arm. The fist connected with a thud and Tristan felt the familiar ache of a dead arm.

“Call that a punch?” Tristan tried to ignore the pain. “I've received worse beatings from my sister, and she's only fourteen.”

Kernard snorted. “Your sister can beat me any day.”

Tristan laughed at his friend’s jest. Kernard was different from the other squires. He was a northerner and, although he was noble born, his family were far from the aristocratic pomp that most squires grew up with. Kernard's relatives were poor and out of favor and, being the third son of the family, Kernard was very much unwanted. His master, Sir Kevon Nown, had only taken Kernard on as a kindness to his sister, Kernard's mother.

As soon as Kernard had arrived, he had become known as the loudmouthed, impolite squire who preferred to solve issues with his fists. Tristan had befriended the new squire at once. It was good to know someone with even less breeding than himself, and it gave them something to moan about.

“Come on,” Tristan said, leading the way. “Let’s get the others. Reckon we've got a good few hours of drinking, easy.”

“Do we have to?” Kernard unleashed a sigh.

“Drink? Why? You going soft in your old age?” Tristan knew his friend referred to gathering the other squires, of course. There were very few of them Kernard got on with; most he just tolerated...sometimes. “The more of us, the less likely we'll be picked out if we're reported.”

“Fine,” Kernard said, “but let’s leave Pigson, eh? Wouldn't want to have to knock him on his fat arse again.”

#

They found Archie outside his master's tent. He was sitting cross-legged on the cold ground, a knife in one hand and a small block of wood with three hoofed legs taking form in the other.

“Another horse, Archie?” Tristan asked.

Archie nodded once in reply.

“Don't you know how to carve anything else?” Kernard had asked the same question before many times, but he liked to try and wind Archie up. “Like a dog. Or a woman. You could carve yourself a little woman, give her great big breasts.”

Archie shrugged. “I like horses.”

“Yeah, I bet you do,” Kernard prodded.

Archie ignored the comment and placed both knife and carving just inside the tent flap before standing and giving a dramatic stretch coupled with an exaggerated yawn.

Archie was short and would always be short. He stood just over a full head smaller than both Kernard and Tristan. He was also slim and very handsome, at least according to the amount of female attention he attracted. He also possessed an otherworldly calm that unsettled many, including Kernard.

“Barry said he isn't coming,” Archie stated.

“Why?” Tristan asked.

“He didn't say. I didn't ask.”

“We could just go wake him up.” Kernard suggested.

“He's not in his tent,” Archie countered. “Saw him wandering off towards the village 'bout an hour back.”

“Well, let’s get the other two,” Tristan said.

“Two?” Archie asked, then glanced at Kernard. “We leaving Higson again?”

“Screw Pigson,” Kernard said with venom. “Fat bastard can rot in his tent.”

Archie shrugged and said nothing, falling into step behind Tristan as they walked towards their next accomplice.

#

Simon Fallow was the youngest of the Tristan's group, yet he often acted as if he were the oldest, or at least the most mature. His master, Sir Reg Dridon, was a sot. The old knight was never in his tent; in fact, he was almost never where he was supposed to be. Tristan wagered they'd find Sir Reg passed out in a gutter somewhere, either that or he was sleeping off a hangover in one of the inns, probably with one of the camp followers by his side. Simon, on the other hand, was in his tent. He was laid out on his pallet with his blanket pulled up around him, snoring like an old man.

Not for the first time, Tristan noted, Simon was not cut out to be a squire. He performed all of his duties well enough, but if it weren't for Tristan and the others he'd miss out on all the fun. There was more to being a squire than work, though the Gods knew there was always more than enough of it.

Tristan and Kernard crept into Simon's tent like ghosts, whilst Archie waited outside acting as lookout in case anyone should happen by. It wasn't against the rules for the boys to be out so late, far from it, but it was against the rules if their masters didn't know about it.

Tristan took a quick look around and nodded towards the small wash basin filled with water. Kernard broke into a grin and picked up the basin, moving over to where Simon was sleeping. Just as Kernard was about to douse Simon, his snoring stopped and his eyes flicked open.

“Such a light sleeper, this one,” Tristan said with a smile.

Simon didn't move, his eyes were locked onto Kernard. “Put it down, Kernard.”

Kernard sighed once and tipped the water over Simon's head.

Simon went red with anger. He wiped water from his eyes, then was up in a flash swinging a heavy fist at Kernard. The northerner jumped back laughing and raised the wash basin. Simon's fist connected with the clay fired basin with a thud, followed by whispered cursing.

“That looked like it hurt, Si,” Kernard taunted, still grinning. “You should learn to take a joke.”

“Drenching me was a joke, was it?” Simon cradled his hand. “Proving yet again you Wulfdens have no concept of simple humor.”

Kernard's smile disappeared. “Screw you, Si. Leave my family out of this.”

“Oh I'd love to, but...” Simon started.

“Hey!” Archie whispered, poking his head through the tent flap. “Quiet. All of you.”

“What is it, Archie?” Tristan asked. “Is someone coming?”

“No,” Archie said, then without another word, withdrew his head from inside the tent.

All three boys looked at each other and broke into laughter.

“Come on,” Tristan said, grinning from ear to ear. “Plenty of time to dry off on the way, Si.”

#

The last member of their group for the night was David Vert. At eighteen years, David was the oldest of the group by a good year. For most boys that age it would mean he would socialize with the older squires, but none of the others would have him. David was a royal bastard, a son of the king, and he took every opportunity to remind people that royal blood flowed through his veins.

David had been sitting outside his tent waiting for his friends, but as soon as he saw them he sprang to his feet and ran towards them.

“It's about time,” David said, stopping in front of Tristan. “Thought I was going to have to go in on my own tonight.”

“Right.” Simon issued an exaggerated snort. “More like you thought you'd have to sit outside your tent and sulk all night.”

“Hah! Good one,” David said, giving Simon a friendly punch on the arm. Unfortunately for Simon, a friendly punch from David usually resulted in a bruise.

Tristan still remembered the first time David had given Kernard a punch. The two had almost brawled. Kernard took physicality almost as personal as insults to his family, and David wasn't used to people who punched back.

“Where's the little Piggy?” David asked, falling into step beside Simon.

“Not coming,” Kernard said. “Too busy with his head in a trough, I expect.”

David laughed at the cruel jest, but no one else joined in. Tristan held his tongue. He quite liked Higson, but Kernard hated the fat squire and the feeling was mutual, though Tristan had no idea where the animosity came from.

#

Underbridge had once been a small rural village before the war started. It had soon changed as it became one of the staging areas for Falcon Keep along the Wall of the Dead. Falcon Keep's barracks weren't large enough to hold all the troops so a number of knights had decided to set up a temporary barracks area at the closest village. They were close enough to ride to the support of the keep within the hour. As such, in the two years since the knights had started camping on the outskirts, Underbridge had doubled in size.

There were two taverns in Underbridge, three if you counted the new whorehouse, which had only been erected in the last month. Tristan didn't but he knew both Kernard and David had visited the place. The tavern they were headed to was frequented most by squires, the knights tending to use the old tavern to avoid having to reprimand their charges in due course. It was an arrangement that benefited all; the squires got the opportunity to have a few drinks, relax, and let off some steam, whilst the knights got to ignore them, if but for a while.

“Hey, guys. Wait up!”

From the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kernard's expression darken.

Higson jogged up to the group. The fat squire then doubled over, huffing and puffing. His face was bright red from the jog and sweat drenched his forehead.

Archie gave Higson a nudge and a wink and the squire almost lost his balance and toppled over.

“Glad to see you made it, Higgy,” Archie said.

“Only just,” Higson said between breaths. “You almost left me behind.”

“That was the plan,” Kernard growled.

Higson turned indignant eyes on Kernard. “What was that, Wulfden? Didn't quite hear you.”

Kernard grinned. “Allow me to say it louder then: that was the plan.” He took a step towards the fat squire. Higson took a step backwards, fear plain on his chubby face.

Tristan wedged between the two. Higson was short, overweight, and terrible in a fight. Kernard would squash him and, even though Higson knew it too, the fat squire would not back down, he had too much pride. It was best just to keep the two apart as much as possible.

“How about we all just calm down and have a few friendly drinks,” Tristan suggested in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Sounds good,” Higson said.

Kernard grinned, he considered the exchange a victory. “Sure.”

#

The Open Door was a large wooden building of hasty yet sturdy design on the outskirts of Underbridge. It had no windows on the ground floor and a door that, like its name suggested, never closed.

Tristan had been into the village proper twice. He had noticed most of the buildings were wood, only a few of the larger ones affording a stone construction. The roads were unpaved and the populace scant when he’d visited prior, giving credence to Underbridge being a small, quaint community before the war.

With fifty-some-odd squires camped close by, the Open Door was always busy at night. Inside, it was a cramped atmosphere, lit by candles both night and day due to a lack of windows. Tables were close together, fitting as many patrons inside as possible. Knights took turns on tavern guard duty; every night, four of them would sit in the corner of the room at a table reserved just for them, nursing a single ale and keeping a wary eye on the happenings. They had broken up more than a few scuffles between squires, and it was a successful deterrent most of the time, as any squire apprehended for fighting, or any other dicey activity, would be given the worst job possible — latrine duty was a particular favorite — until another culprit came along.

Most of the tables were already occupied. As the group entered, some of the closer occupants looked up and chuckled. It didn't take a moment for Tristan to see why. The only remaining empty tables were closest to the knights, the least enviable seating in the tavern.

“I knew we were late,” David said with a grumpy look. He had already seen his own master, Sir Kevan Verit, among the knights. Sir Kevan would fix David with regular disapproving glances. David would be in a sulk all night.

“Yeah, Tris,” Kernard said. “Late.”

“I know,” Tristan said with a sigh. “But I have to wait until old Colf is asleep. You know what he says about taverns.”

“They're for sots and layabouts,” Kernard said in his best Sir Breen Colf voice. It was, Tristan to admit, right on the nose.

“Judging by the size of his gut I’d say the man's a hypocrite,” Simon added.

“What's a hypocrite?” Kernard asked.

Higson snorted. “The famous Wulfden education proving itself yet again.”

Kernard clenched his jaw, but did nothing. Tristan had no doubt he would have flattened Higson there and then if it hadn't been for the knights watching them.

Archie gave Higson a little push in the back towards one of the free tables. “Leave it out, Higgy. Let’s sit down.”

No sooner were they sat the serving maid appeared with full tankards. There was no question of what they would be drinking; the Open Door only served one drink, a weak brown ale that tasted close enough like muddy water. David gave Kernard a nudge whilst eyeing the maid. Kernard glanced at her and laughed.

“As if you'd have a chance,” Kernard said. “Girls like that got better sense than to bed a lowly squire like you.”

Tristan looked at the maid. She was pretty to be sure; young, but with a full, curvy body. No doubt she'd be well used to rebuffing randy squires making advances towards her.

“Who are you calling lowly? Reckon she'd be happy to have some royal blood between her thighs.”

Simon almost choked on his ale, whilst Higson leveled a patronizing look at David. “What are you intending to do, David? Bleed on her? There's better things to be doing between a woman's legs.”

“How would you know, Pigson?” Kernard asked, his voice flat and mocking.

“I've...been there...before,” Higson said.

Kernard snorted. “When? Your mother doesn't count, we've all been there.”

There was a round of laughing at the table, and Higson went red either from embarrassment or possibly rage. It was hard to tell, red seemed to be his normal color some days.

“Well, better a few squires than a whole kingdom, Kernard. You know rumor has it you don't look much like your father.”

An uneasy hush came over the table. It seemed even the nearby tables went silent. He couldn't help but notice the knights close by, watching the exchange. In the end, Higson was saved a beating by another squire intruding upon the group — one of Archie's friends, though Tristan couldn't remember the boy's name. He had never been any good at remembering names.

“Hey, Archie,” the new squire said, sitting himself in an empty seat. “Lads. I saw your Barry earlier.”

“Where was he?” Tristan asked. He knew the boy wanted to gossip, and he would have ignored him, but right now Tristan welcomed the distraction.

“Well,” the boy stopped to take a long swig of ale before continuing, “I was on my way back from the Hog's Head, that's the tavern at the other end of town. My master lets me have a drink with him there at the end of the day. It's a much better joint than this. They serve real ale, not this piss water.”

Tristan glanced around the table, the rest of his group were just as unimpressed by the boy's claim.

“So,” the boy went on, “I see this lad waiting in an alley behind the bakers. You know Smitts' bakery?”

“I know the place,” Tristan said, intrigued.

“Yeah, nice place. Good bread, I get the odd loaf. So, I recognize the lad as one of your lot. Barry. Crept a bit a closer and hid myself to watch.”

“Do you often spy on your fellow squires?” Kernard asked.

“What would Barry be doing over that side of Underbridge?” Simon said before the boy could answer Kernard.

“Maybe he wanted a loaf of bread?” Higson said with a grin.

“Some of us can go more than five minutes without eating,” Kernard responded.

“So you watched him?” Tristan prompted before another argument could start.

“Yep,” the boy said, happy to be the center of attention again. “He was waiting around for about five minutes, then the window above him opens and a girl climbs out. I reckon she was about fifteen maybe, very pretty in a homely way. So she drops into his arms, they kiss, then run off, straight past me, didn't even notice me.”

There was silence around the table. The noises of the tavern, a collection of voices making a dull din, seemed to grow louder.

“Barry's getting himself with a baker's daughter?” Simon asked. “Isn't he from a prestigious family?”

“He's a Lowell,” Archie said, his voice as level as ever. “His father is Duke of Land's End.”

“Not as prestigious as my family,” David added.

“Who was your mother again?” Higson asked.

David shrugged. “Some whore. I never met her.”

“I think you missed the point,” Higson replied.

“They'll never let him be with some common baker's daughter,” Simon said. “His family, I mean.”

“They might,” Archie said. “He's the fourth son after all. Besides, if he gets himself knighted he can marry who he wants.”

“You don't think he's just in it for a tumble then?” Kernard asked.

“Barry?” Tristan replied. “Nah, the boy writes poetry.”

Again the table fell into silence as the boys all nodded at Tristan's comment. After a while the squire who had delivered the information excused himself and ran off to spread more gossip.

#

The evening wore on, the maid refilling their mugs from time to time, earning a single copper from each. It was the lowest denomination of money within the Five Kingdoms, but ale as poor as the Open Door’s fare deserved no better, no matter how pretty the maid.

Higson continued pushing Kernard, often using his superior education to make the northerner look a fool. Kernard sometimes managed a retort, but more often than not resorted to staring at the fat squire with smoldering anger in his eyes.

Archie had a few more visitors during the night, but that was no surprise. Tristan knew how popular Archie was; everyone seemed to like him, even those unsettled by his persistent calm. Most of his visitors talked about squires that Tristan either didn't know or didn't care to know, the others talked about events back home for Archie in the eastern kingdom.

The disapproving looks from Sir Kevan aimed at David grew more frequent and, as they did, so did David's agitation. He did not enjoy having a chaperone and was aware that, at any time, his master could decide his night was over.

When Tristan’s enlarged bladder was becoming painful, he made a quick explanation, then stood and made for the back entrance.

Out back were two outhouses. Tristan tried the doors and received an angry grunt from inside both of them. Giving up, he decided to water a nearby fence instead. In truth, he was glad — the smell of the outhouses was legendary.

As he started to release a steady stream, Tristan felt his skin crawl. He glanced around and saw no one, but couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. He shivered and finished as quickly as he could, then turned to go back inside.

That was when he heard it. The unmistakeable ringing of steel on steel and the drifting sounds of raised voices coming from the knight's camp. There wouldn't be many folks in the camp this late, and there was no way any training should be happening in the darkness of night.

Tristan was about to investigate when he saw a younger squire sprinting down the road from the camp, terror etched plain on the boy's face. He moved to intercept, but the boy ran straight past him and into the tavern. Worried, and more than a little confused, Tristan followed him inside.

“...camp is under attack!” There was an unusual silence in the room, save for the young squire, with all eyes focused on him.

“What? Who? How?” This from one of the knights near Tristan's table.

“The dead...” the squire said between breaths. “Tunnel...”

Sir Kevan Verit wasted no time. He stood and took charge of the situation. “You know where the Hog's Head is, boy?”

The squire replied with a shake of his head.

Tristan seized the chance. “I do, sir.”

“Inform the knights of the situation. Everyone else to the camp. NOW!”

Tristan spun, ran out the door, and sprinted into town towards the Hog's Head.

The village sped by Tristan in an adrenaline-fueled blur. He was aware of the odd passer-by gawking at him, no doubt confused by the sight of a squire dashing through town in the middle of the night. Tristan didn't care. They were finally going to see some real battle. He was finally going to get a chance to prove himself.

He skidded to a stop outside the tavern and pushed the door open with more strength than intended. It slammed against the wall, and all eyes locked onto him. He swallowed, made nervous by the situation, his tongue felt like a strip of dried leather.

“We're under attack!” he blurted out. “Dead in the camp. A tunnel or something.”

Every knight in the room stood as one. Chairs were knocked over and tables were shoved out of the way, mugs smashed to the floor. They marched to the exits. One knight stopped by Tristan.

“Who's your master, boy?”

“Breen Colf, sir.”

“He'll still be at the camp. Get back to him quick. We'll follow.”

Tristan nodded and was off again at full pace, sprinting towards the camp and the battle.

#

The camp was almost empty when Tristan arrived. He could hear the sounds of battle close by, could see the torchlight bobbing in the distance. He hoped that meant they had beaten the dead back to their tunnel.

He located his tent and ducked inside to retrieve his sword. He found Sir Breen still on his pallet, but with a sword through his chest. The dead must have got a few of their number into the camp.

Tristan swallowed down bile and said a quick prayer to the God of Death. Sir Breen may have been aging, fat, and a terrible bore, but he was a good man and something of a legend in his own time. Tristan had counted himself lucky that a hero like Breen had taken him on as squire. Now, the man was dead. Gone.

Tristan glanced about for his sword. There was so much blood. It was still seeping from the corpse into the confined space, soaking everything dark red. The smell, even so fresh, was almost unbearable. Tristan suppressed a gag.

His sword was gone. He knew where he had left it, but it was no longer there.

He heard an odd rattle noise behind him and spun. A skeleton stood in the tent entrance, its fleshless skull grinning at him. It had all the correct bones in the correct positions, but it looked to Tristan as if many of the bones had come from different owners; its right arm was shorter than its left, and some ribs were discolored, yellowed from age, whilst others were bleached white. It held a single sword in its left hand.

The skeleton took a lurching step towards Tristan. It was almost in striking range. Tristan took a step backwards. The skeleton took another step forwards. Again Tristan retreated, his mind reeling, struggling to find an escape route.

He fell backwards over the body of his dead master, landing in a pool of blood. It soaked into his tunic, covered his hands, sticky and wet and so very red. The skeleton advanced again.

Tristan grabbed hold of the sword in Sir Breen's chest and wrenched it free. It was slippery in his blood-soaked hands, but he held it tight.

Tristan swung. The blow lacked finesse, but more than made up for it with raw power. The skeleton parried. Tristan swung again, wild and low. This time, the sword bit into the skeleton's leg, taking off everything lower than the knee. It toppled, fell forwards across Sir Breen's body. Tristan knew he’d yet to finish the creature; the dead were notoriously hard to kill.

As the skeleton struggled to right itself, Tristan brought the sword’s pommel down on its skull. A large chunk of bone broke off, but still the creature moved, trying to get its hands beneath it. Tristan smashed it with the pommel again and again and again. By the time he finished, little remained of the creature's skull but shards of bone. Most importantly, it no longer moved.

Tristan crawled into a corner and heaved. His stomach contents tasted bitter on the way back up. After he was done he turned and fled the tent, snatching up the sword as he went.

The knights from the tavern had caught up with Tristan. Many were in their tents trying to fasten their armor by themselves, others were already heading towards the sounds of battle, some armored, some not, some with the odd bit of plate attached.

One knight stopped in front of Tristan. He looked the squire up and down with a concerned expression. Tristan didn't recognize him.

“It's not my blood,” Tristan said, holding up his hands to show the Knight. “Sir Breen is dead. They got him in his sleep.”

“Damn!” the knight swore. “Well, what are you waiting for, boy? An invitation? Get to the fight!”

“Yes, sir.” Tristan gave a hasty salute and ran towards the sounds of fighting.

The battle was not far from the camp. Torches had been driven into the ground close by to give enough light to fight by, while David's master, Sir Kevan Verit, bellowed orders from the back lines.

A loose ring of knights and squires, some in full armor, but most with only breastplates or no armor at all, fought side by side and surrounded the tunnel, trying to hem the dead in. There didn't seem to be any real attempt to push the dead back, but with a never-ending horde reinforcing itself from the tunnel, pushing back seemed an impossible feat. No doubt they had already sent riders to Falcon Keep; Tristan doubted, however, whether they could hold for the three hours it would take for reinforcements to arrive.

He pushed his doubts aside, spotted his friends, and ran over to help them. All five were in a group with a single knight close by giving orders. Kernard, David, and Archie were holding up the front lines, whilst Simon and Higson backed them up where necessary. They seemed to be holding their own, despite it being the first real battle for any of them.

Tristan arrived just as Kernard took the head off a skeleton with a savage swing. He was wielding a two-handed great sword that looked a lot like his master's, and Tristan wondered whether Sir Kevon Nown had been an early casualty like Sir Breen.

Simon spotted Tristan before the others and waved him over, handing him a sturdy iron mace.

“Here, better than a sword against these types,” Simon said. “Aim for the head.”

Tristan took the mace in his right hand, but kept the sword for his left; he'd always been better with two weapons than with a shield. He thanked Simon with a nod, and then inserted himself into the front lines between Kernard and the knight.

“Nice of you to join us, Tris. Thought you were going to sit this one out!” Kernard then glanced at Tristan. “Shit! Are you all right?”

“It's not mine,” Tristan said, swiping a skeleton. “It's Breen's.”

Kernard blocked an attack and hit a skeleton with the handle of his sword, knocking the creature to the ground before stomping on its neck. The head detached with a crack, and Tristan noticed his friend had donned a pair of plate boots.

“The old bear is dead?” Kernard asked.

“Got him in his tent.” Tristan found himself facing two opponents. There was no time for talking anymore. It was all he could do to keep from getting skewered.

“DUCK!” the knight beside him shouted. Tristan obeyed without hesitation. An instant later, a heavy iron-bound staff whipped over his head and shattered a skeleton’s skull. Tristan stood and destroyed the second skeleton’s head with his mace. Both sets of bones collapsed to the earth, the magic animating them no longer able to work without their heads.

They barely had time to take a breath when a swarm of skeletons was upon them. The line was fluid, moving back and forth a few steps at a time as they lost and gained ground. From time to time, Higson or Simon would appear at Tristan's side to help him deal with multiple enemies, and then they would be off to help others.

All around steel rang against steel, metal impacted against bone, and screams of pain tore across the battlefield, but the line held, even as wave after wave of skeletons came against them.

“Nooooo!” Higson screamed out in the night, his voice high with fear.

Tristan was holding off two skeletons, but risked a glance. David was on the ground, a fatal gash across his face. Kernard was holding off four skeletons at once, his sword moving at an impossible speed for such a large weapon. Higson was on the ground scrambling away from the line, and Simon was engaged on the other side of the knight. Kernard couldn't hold off four enemies at once, not for long, not with more of them arriving all the time.

Kernard roared at Higson, “You fat sack of shit, get up and help! Good, now take David's place on the line.”

“But, but—”

“I swear I'll kill you myself!”

Tristan risked another glance, saw Higson move into position. Kernard was doing most of the work, killing Higson's opponents as well as his own, but as long as Higson kept some of the pressure off they could manage. For now.

#

The waves of dead seemed endless. It felt like days had passed, weeks even. Tristan had no idea where his strength came from. Every time he thought he was exhausted, another burst of energy would hit; still, his attacks were sloppy, his blocks, out of necessity, turned to parries. Tristan knew he wouldn't last much longer.

They were stuck in a dangerous holding pattern. The dead came in wave after wave against the knights and squires. They, in turn, did not have the manpower to push back. It was not a fight the Five Kingdom's forces could win. As time wore on, more and more of them fell, whilst the dead never relented, their only limitation was the number that could exit the tunnel at one time.

Tristan never saw or heard Simon fall. In a short lull he glanced to the side. Simon was down, his eyes dull and lifeless, a gaping wound on his chest. Tristan looked around in panic. Kernard still fought on, Higson close at his side; both looked tired, but judging by the pile of bones at their feet they had cost their enemies dearly. Archie was gone, whether he was dead, fled, or moved to help support the line somewhere else, Tristan didn't know.

Then the lull was over, and Tristan had no more time to worry over his friends’ fates.

He parried with his sword and swung with his mace. The blow hit home, caving in the skull of the skeleton. It crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

He was so tired, too tired to respond fast enough to the next attack. He moved to dodge as another skeleton stabbed at him. The sword bit into his left side. It was a shallow slice, but it hurt like hell and he felt hot, wet blood leak down his side.

Kernard edged closer. Higson moved with him. It left a small gap in the lines, but gaps were already appearing everywhere. The dead had already breached the lines, but instead of turning and attacking their living enemies from both sides they made straight for the village. There was nothing the knights or squires could do to stop them.

“How you holding up?” Kernard shouted above the din of battle.

“I'm good,” Tristan replied, the lie etched in pain. “How long has it been?”

“Don't know. Higson reckons an hour or so.”

Reinforcements were still too far away. Neither of them said it, but they knew they couldn't hold.

Then, the Wight appeared. It strode out of the tunnel, and the other dead moved aside for it, parting and bowing their skulls like servants to their lord. The creature stood seven feet tall and was dressed in a heavy suit of chain mail. Its bones showed only in its skull and hands. It wore a faceless helm with a single spike atop, and an ethereal blue light blazed from its eye sockets. A long sword with a serrated blade rested in its hand.

The Wight took only a moment to survey the battlefield, then strode forward, straight towards the weakest link. Straight towards Tristan.

A knight appeared from nowhere and rushed towards the Wight. The creature didn't even break stride as it turned aside the attack and ran the knight through. His scream pierced the noise of the battlefield, and Tristan felt his bowels turn to water.

The creature was almost upon him. Kernard shouted a battle cry and charged the Wight. It parried his attack and backhanded Kernard with its free hand. The blow spun Kernard, and he hit the ground with a loud grunt, stunned.

The Wight advanced on Kernard to finish him, but then Higson was there. The small, fat boy rained blow after blow on the Wight, his attacks fueled by rage and terror. To Tristan's amazement, the Wight retreated under the flurry of attacks, but then it caught Higson's sword in its hand and raised its own sword.

Tristan rushed forward and blocked the downward strike with both his weapons. He felt fresh blood seep from his side, and the jar from the blow jolted his very bones.

The Wight was fast. Its free hand snaked out and caught Tristan's left wrist. A freezing cold seeped into his arm. Tristan’s flesh turned a pale blue, and he began shivering from his head to his feet. All the while, the Wight grinned at him from its lifeless skull, the blue light from its eye sockets burning into his soul.

Behind the Wight, Kernard had regained his feet and recovered his greatsword. The Wight hadn't noticed, and Kernard braced himself, swinging with every ounce of his strength. The blade took the Wight in the mid-section, loosening its grip on Tristan and knocking it to the ground. Its chain mail held together, but without flesh to soften the blow the force of Kernard's attack snapped the Wight's spine.

Tristan stumbled backwards, and Higson was there to steady him. Kernard stood close by, panting, so tired he was unable to raise his sword.

The Wight clawed towards them, dragging its useless lower body.

A warhorse suddenly appeared, canting forward. The steed reared and brought one of its massive, shod hooves down on the creature's skull, crushing it to shards of bone and dust. The horse snorted and pawed at the earth, as if to make sure the undead thing was truly destroyed.

The three boys looked dumbfounded, unable to comprehend what had just happened. They all peered up at the warhorse’s rider, recognizing Prince General Sir Jerard Fulf, supreme commander of the Five Kingdoms military. Behind him came an army. Hundreds of knights joined the battle, pushing the dead back in a tide of armor and steel.

“Get them back into that hole,” the Prince General bellowed, then turned to a knight close by. “Sir Bryne, take some men into the village. Clean up any that got through the lines.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Sir Bryne spurred his steed away, calling out orders of his own.

“Where are my engineers? I want this tunnel collapsed.”

Tristan found it hard to form a thought as the Prince General’s gaze looked towards him and his brothers-in-arms. The man swung from his horse with practiced ease.

“Names?” the Prince General asked, looking at Tristan, whose tongue seemed stuck in his mouth.

The man was tall and muscular. He wore plate armour that glinted in the torchlight, despite the dust from his ride. His once-black hair greyed around the ears, and his face was hard and stern, and there was pride there, too.

Kernard was first to find his tongue. “Kernard Wulfden, m’lord.”

“Lyndsey Higson, sir.”

“Uh, Tristan Southerland, Majesty.” Some of the shock was wearing off, as Tristan's side began to hurt like hell. He put a hand on the wound and could feel it wet with blood. His vision blurred a little, and his legs wobbled.

“Squires?”

“Yes, sir. All of us, sir,” Higson replied.

“Kneel then,” the Prince General commanded. “Be quick.”

All three boys obeyed without question.

The Prince General walked behind them, drew his sword, laying first on Tristan's shoulder, then Higson's, and last of all, Kernard's.

“For your courage and service on this battlefield, I hereby knight the three of you. Rise, Sir Tristan Southerland, Sir Lyndsey Higson, Sir Kernard Wulfden.”

Higson and Kernard stood, but Tristan struggled with his wound. Higson took his arm without a word and helped him to his feet.

“Not many are brave enough to take on a Wight. I've seen just one of those foul creatures kill ten knights. You three did a great deed here. Be proud. Now, get that wound seen to,” he instructed Tristan. “And then all three of you report to Falcon Keep soon as you're fit to ride.”

With that, Prince General Sir Jerard Fulf strode away, leaving three young knights to help each other from the field.

#

Tristan lay on a pallet, a groggy jumbled mess from the half bottle of whiskey the healer had made him drink. They were saving the poppy for those worse off. The healer was almost finished with her stitching.

Kernard and Higson hung about, trying not to get in anyone’s way. Whatever had given rise to the hostility between them seemed gone. They had both saved each other's lives on the battlefield. The three of them had killed a Wight together, been knighted together, and Tristan likened them all as long-time friends now.

Archie lay on a pallet on the other side of the tent. He had been dragged from the battlefield by a fellow squire who had seen him fall. The healer said Archie would live, but his war was over; the injury to his right leg would forever give him a pronounced limp.

“All done,” the healer proclaimed, giving Tristan a reassuring touch on the shoulder. “You're staying here for the night. Doubt you could move if you wanted to.”

Tristan grinned up at the woman, thinking she might have been pretty some twenty years ago.

“That must be some good stuff you gave our friend,” Kernard said.

“Just whiskey,” she said, looking up.

“Ah. More to spare then for a couple newly dubbed knights?” Higson gave her a chubby-cheeked grin.

The healer stood, brushing her hands on her bloody apron, and looked them over appraisingly. “Barely a scratch on either of you. I don’t think so. Let your friend rest in peace. Off to the taverns with you.”

“But I got me a fierce black eye,” Kernard protested. He wasn't wrong, his face had swollen with a bruise where the Wight had struck him.

“I think you'll live. Out. Come visit your comrade tomorrow.”

“G'night, guys,” Tristan slurred from his pallet, eyes already closed.