The Chronicles of the Eirish: Book 1: The Lich's Horde Read online

  The Chronicles of the Eirish:

  Book 1:

  The Lich’s Horde

  A Novel of Dark Fantasy

  By

  Doug Dandridge

  Dedication

  This novel is dedicated to those who have read and enjoyed my offerings into the realms of fantasy. You all rock.

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  Copyright © 2018 Doug Dandridge

  All rights reserved.

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  Books by Doug Dandridge

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  Science Fiction

  The Exodus Series

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 1

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm.

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 4: the Long Fall.

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 5: Ranger

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 6: The Day of Battle

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike:

  Exodus: Empires at War Book 8: Soldiers

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 9: Second Front.

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 10: Search & Destroy.

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 11: Day of Infamy.

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 12: Time Strike.

  Exodus: Empires at War: Book 13: Retaliation.

  Exodus: Tales of the Empire: Exploration Command:

  Exodus: Tales of the Empire: Beast of the Frontier.

  Exodus: Machine Wars: Book 1: Supernova.

  Exodus: Machine Wars: Book 2: Bolthole.

  Exodus: Machine War: Book 3: Death From Above.

  Exodus: Machine War: Book 4: Retribution

  The Deep Dark Well Series

  The Deep Dark Well

  To Well and Back

  Deeper and Darker

  Theocracy

  Theocracy: Book 2

  Others

  The Shadows of the Multiverse

  Diamonds in the Sand

  The Scorpion

  Afterlife

  We Are Death, Come for You

  Five By Five 3: Target Zone:

  A Fistfull of Credits Anthology.

  Lockdown: Zombie Anthology.

  The Prometheus Saga: A Science Fiction Anthology

  Apocalypse: A Fiction River Anthology.

  Fantasy

  The Refuge Series

  Refuge: The Arrival: Book 1

  Refuge: The Arrival: Book 2

  Refuge: Book 3: The Legions

  Refuge: Book 4: Kurt’s Quest:

  Refuge: Book 5: Angels & Demons

  Doppelganger: A Novel of Refuge

  Others

  The Hunger

  Daemon

  Aura

  Marathon

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  Chapter One

  Seamus O’Rourk swore under his breath as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, staring at yet another burned out nomad camp. He had seen nothing like it in all of his twenty years as a Steppes trader. Warriors lying dead on the grass, glassy eyes staring unseeing at the blue dome of the sky. All had died with swords in their hands. Said hands still gripped the swords, though in some cases they were no longer attached to the wielders’ bodies. Some of the men had bleeding holes in their chests, dead by arrow. Others bore the hack marks of sabers. And some lay there without a mark on their bodies, horrified expressions on their faces, victims of sorcery.

  Women and children lay near the men. Some of the women had died fighting beside their men, their bodies marked by the wounds of battle. Others lay with fly covered faces as the blood from slit throats congealed under their heads. All had hiked skirts that indicated rapine had preceded death. The children were the worst, forms in size from pre-adolescents to babes in arms. All with faces frozen in terror as they met their ends.

  The stink was horrible, the smell of bodies that had bloated in the sun. It was all enough to make the master trader shudder. Thoughts of something like this happening to his family ran through his imagination. They were safe, back in Doblas, the most protected city in the kingdom of Eire, and not likely to be under any threat. He continued his inspection, forced to bear witness.

  The headman of the tribe was recognizable by his better armor, fine lamellar, marking his wealth. His sword was missing, an indication of its quality, loot even the reavers had coveted. The many tears in his armor showed how hard he had fought, while the half-ruined face, teeth showing, was an indication of death by ax or mace. One eye was wide open, the right, still intact and a sign of the horrors this man had looked upon before he died. The left was a ruin. The woman near him was also dressed in fine clothing, her skirts hiked up, masses of blood on her thighs and a horrid gash on her throat.

  They cut him down, then raped his woman in front of his eyes before crushing his skull with a heavy weapon, thought Seamus, shaking his head. There were some children laying near as well, and he thought he was looking at the family group. He said a quick prayer to the Gods that he never found himself watching the deaths of his wife and children, then turned away.

  All of the horses were gone, as were most of the cattle that the Scythians herded from camp to camp. Many of their belongings were missing as well, though not their weapons or meager armor. It was as if their killers did not want the weapons of the tribe, only their cattle and horses, and their lives. Seamus had seen wars on the Steppes in prior years. But this was not war in the manner of the Scythian people. They fought to get a point across, to enforce their will and their boundaries on another tribe. Not to destroy them.

  “That’s the fourth one so far,” said Gunther Vogel, the caravan master’s guard chief. “I wonder why their gods didn’t protect them?”

  Seamus looked over at the Frank, then back at the Scythians. Seamus was a son of Eire, on the Western Ocean. His people were Celts, descended from the same racial stock as the people on the ground. Even if his civilization was closer to that of the Franks, his blood was more closely related to these nomads, with their sun bronzed skins where the light of the Steppes burned into them, and fair freckled hides underneath their clothing. Many of the people had red hair, much like that of Seamus. That he was a civilized man, able to read and write, and even perform some simple spells, was beside the point.

  “I just don’t know, Gunther,” said Seamus, shaking his head. He thought his gods wouldn’t have allowed something like this to happen. Not all gods were the same, but it was a given that the gods of a homeland were more powerful than that of an invader. That had meant much in the history of this world. Nations could nibble at the edges of other lands, but conquest was not possible, which was why even the smaller weaker tribes had survived through the millennia.

  “What do you want to do, Master Trader?” asked Vogel, his voice tone telling the trader what he wanted to do.

  “We turn around and make for the Slavic lands,” said Seamus, wiping at the sweat on his forehead again, and doing little more than spread it around. “We cannot trade with dead people, and I do not want to be out here when whoever did this comes along.” He almost added a directive to the Frank to be extra alert but stopped himself at the last moment. Vogel had been his captain of guards for five years, and a senior guard for five before that. He k
new the man had a good idea of what was going on, at least as good as he did, and would do his job efficiently.

  Both men were silent on the ride back to the wagons. Seamus ignored the shouted questions, letting Gunther handle the inquiries. Within minutes the twenty heavy wagons were on their way, each pulled along by a quartet of oxen. Gunther had his dozen men riding along the perimeter, one pair each to the front and rear as scouts. All wore breastplates and helms, and carried wheel lock pistols on their persons, as well as long swords. About half the men had expensive wheel lock rifles in saddle boots, while the other half carried strung horse-bows. All handled their weapons expertly, and all continuously scanned their environment.

  Seamus rode his own horse, eschewing the relative comfort of the wagons. With the exception of the rolling kitchen, all the wagons were loaded down with trade goods; blades, powder, cloth, as well as various sundries like sewing supplies, locks, all the things the nomads were not able to make on their own. He had expected a large profit this year, since a gathering of the tribes was planned for later on in the summer. Instead, he looked to be taking an enormous loss. The goods could be stored in one of the Slavic cities till the next year, at considerable cost. But the next year might not be any better if these people had taken such losses.

  The winds whipped through the grasslands, producing the continual sigh that travelers came to associate with these flat, all but treeless lands. They seemed empty of all but herds of grazing animals and their predators, mostly packs of wolves. Normally that emptiness was deceiving, as thousands of people rode the plains, moving their herds to better graze.

  “Who do you think did this?” he asked Vogel as the captain rode up next to him.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Master Trader,” answered the guard captain. “Turks, Tarters, someone we have never seen before? A migration? Maybe even a tribe from as far away as the land of the Ming.”

  Seamus shook his head. He had heard of the wonders of the Ming, a people with a civilization every bit as advanced as his own, a people who still dabbled in the higher forms of magic that most Western churches forbid. The Ionians and Thracians traded with them over the water route of the Middle Sea, while his own people carried on indirect trade through the peoples of the Southern Ocean.

  “This has never happened before,” said Seamus, looking over at the Frank. “No one has ever been strong enough to take on the Scythians on their own ground.” He shuddered once again, wondering just what kind of terror was running lose on the steppes. Whatever it was, he had no desire to run into it himself.

  That night they made camp with banked fires, not wanting to give themselves away across the flat grasslands. The next morning they were up before the sun and on their way as the orange orb poked its circumference over the horizon. At midday they saw smoke rising in the distance, and the master trader ordered a change in their path back to civilization, slanting more to the south. The amount of smoke in the air could only mean one thing, and he didn’t want to run into the people who had caused the burning of that far encampment.

  “Another five days and we should be to Bratislava,” said Vogel at the meal that night, referring to the closest of the Slavic cities to this section of the Steppes. Many years before the Slavs had attempted to exert their control over the Scythians and had failed miserably. Bratislava was the last remnant of that effort, turned into a trading town. It was still a fortress, and the closest place most likely to weather the storm that seemed to be coming to the steppes.

  So, what happened this time? thought Seamus, staring into the low flames. This was in the center of the Scythian lands, and this kind of carnage should not have been possible here. Oh, tribes worshiping the same gods could chop each other to bits, but the deities were jealous of their people, and would not allow the worshippers of another to intrude on the heartlands. Which was why the nations of the west had battled over the same borderlands for centuries, back and forth.

  “I will be very happy to see it,” said Seamus, fingering the amulet he always wore around his neck, and hoped to never use. It had cost him the profits of an entire year and could only be used once. He had spent his youth in the study of magic, until he realized he did not have the talent to become a master. And just in time to avoid the Church pogrom against people who used magic that didn’t come from the Gods, with the exception of alchemists, of course. It was a quality piece, and he had driven a hard bargain, but his wife had insisted on his making the investment. Not that it will do anyone else any good, he thought, making a promise to only use it as a last resort.

  “We have people coming,” said Gunther the next day, as the heat of the afternoon sun raised waves of distortion over the grasslands. One of the guards, he riding the outer scout picket, signaled back with his hands. “Jan says thirty, maybe forty men on horseback.”

  That could be trouble, thought the master trader. If they were Scythians, they would not attack. Their people depended too much on the trade from the civilized lands to risk driving it away for short term gain. If they were something else? The people who were slaughtering the nomads, fifty or sixty of them could be enough to kill the entire trading party. Thirty-six armed men might be able to fight them off. Then again, they might not.

  “What do you want to do, Master Trader?” asked the guard leader.

  If there are only forty of them, we should wall up with the wagons. But if more come along, that could be our death. But can we outrun them?

  “Let’s get the wagons unhitched and in a circle,” he told the man, who nodded, then turned his horse and started shouting out instructions to the rest.

  The party was well practiced in the same maneuver they used to make camp most nights. In minutes they had the wagons unhitched and in a circle. Unlike most nights, they moved all the horses into the enclosure and drove the oxen off. The large draft cattle lowed in confusion as the drovers beat them with sticks out into the surrounding grasslands. Seamus would have preferred to keep them at hand as well, but keeping them close was asking the attackers to kill them. He would rather take the chance that they could round them up afterwards, if there was an afterwards.

  The trade master climbed up on one of his wagons and pulled the telescope he carried with him from its protective sheath. He focused on the light dust cloud that marked the oncoming horsemen. He cursed under his breath as he recognized the uniforms of Bulgar cavalrymen, the closest of the Slavic kingdoms. And here he had wasted his time getting his people into a defensive position. He was just about to order the men to get on their horses and round up the oxen when he saw something that stopped him in his tracks.

  It was obvious that the cavalry, about thirty-five or so troopers, had seen the caravan and were heading their way at a fast clip. Or as fast a clip as they could on exhausted horses. Within minutes the condition of the cavalrymen was apparent to all, as they rode their horses, blowing from exhaustion, into the proximity of the camp. All of the men were arrayed in chain hauberks and helms, sabers at their sides, matchlock carbines in saddle holsters. Most were caked in dust, which was not what caught the attention of the men in the caravan. No, what was most apparent were the number of wounded among the Slavs.

  “We have enemies coming on our tails,” yelled the officer, by his features and bearing a noble.

  “And you led them to us,” growled Gunther, looking as if he wanted to strike the man.

  “We can no longer run from them, trader,” said the officer, ignoring the guard leader. “They will be here any minute, and your impromptu stockade is better cover than the grass.”

  “Get your men in the stockade then,” yelled Seamus, standing tall on the wagon and focusing his telescope on another dust cloud that had appeared on the steppe, moving in his direction. A much bigger cloud than had been made by the Slavs.

  The Slavic cavalrymen dismounted, pulled their weapons and bags from their saddles, and lashed the horses away. They climbed the sides of the wagons, those who could, and helped their injured members, alm
ost half the party, up over the wall. Most looked like they could still shoot, though a few appeared to be too wounded to do much more than find shelter and lie down. Included among those were a pair of men with arrows sticking from their chain hauberks, one in the chest, one the shoulder. And one man with a saber cut on his neck, bandages bleeding through, who had to be lifted from his saddle.

  “Lieutenant Borislaw Bulgarin,” said the officer, climbing up to stand beside Seamus, pulling a telescope from his own pouch.

  Seamus nodded, looking over the officer, who, from his last name, was related to the royal family of the Bulgars. The quality of his mail and the twin jeweled pistols in his belt reinforced the idea that he was a noble.

  “And you are Master Trader O’Rourk?”

  “I am, Lieutenant,” said Seamus, surprised that this man knew him. He nodded, then looked back through his telescope and seeing the first of the enemy they would be facing. They were lightly armored nomads, steel caps on their heads, chain half coifs falling from the sides. Leather armor covered their bodies, and all in sight had powerful horn bows in their hands. “And I’m guessing we’re out of time for pleasantries.”

  The officer looked back, then started yelling to his men in his own language so fast that Seamus could only catch every other word. The Bulgar soldiers crawled under the wagons, getting into firing positions and lighting their matches.

  Seamus looked to his own people, most of whom stayed on the tops of the wagons, getting behind the cover of the boxes under the canvas tops, cutting holes in the material so they could push the barrels of their weapons through.

  Seamus crouched down, preparing his own rifle to fire. “I guess they aren’t going to be in a mood for talking,” he said, looking over at the officer, who also crouched down and prepared his own wheel lock rifle.

  “These people don’t talk,” agreed Borislaw, sighting over his weapon. “They kill. And you don’t want to be captured by them.”