Death Comes For All

By Brian Keene and Steven L. Shrewsbury

BRIAN KEENE is the best-selling author of many books, including Dark Hollow, Ghoul, Dead Sea, Terminal, The Conqueror Worms, The Rising, City of the Dead, and more. The winner of two Bram Stoker awards, Keene’s work has been praised in such diverse places as the New York Times, the History Channel, CNN.com, Fangoria, and Rue Morgue. Keene lives in Pennsylvania with his wife, Cassi, and his dog, Sam. He communicates with his readers online at www.briankeene.com.

Steven L. Shrewsbury lives in rural Illinois where he dreams of brighter horizons and long ago places. Over 350 of his tales and 100 of his poems have appeared in print or online. His dark fantasy novel Thrall will be released by Elder Signs Press in 2008. While he denies he is Robert E. Howard reincarnated, his novels Godforsaken and Thoroughbred made many wonder. He writes in many genres—horror, fantasy and even westerns.

Rogan and Javan floated on a sea of corpses. Bodies bobbed up and down in the blood-frothed waves—their crew, their slaves, the pirates who had attacked them, and the sharks and other predators. Birds blocked out the sun, hovering overhead and landing on the dead long enough to seize the choicest morsels.

Rogan kept his eyes closed, listening to the seagulls shrieking. Then he knew no more, until—

“Uncle,” Javan shouted. “We live still!”

Rogan’s long body lay adhered to the hull in a dried circle of blood, seawater, and sweat. The ocean lapped against the shattered craft, and the prolonged rhythm—along with the fatigue from their battle with the pirates—had lulled him to sleep. Rubbing his eyes and scratching at his salt-hardened beard, Rogan raised his head and pulled his mane of hair away from the surface. He blinked, licked his sun-blistered lips and winced, grinning at the pain.

“You are a brilliant advisor after all, Javan. It is not a wonder I brought you along to interpret and counsel me. Of course we still live. Our crew and slaves were slain, but death has not come for us. Perhaps soon.”

“I endeavor to bring satisfaction, sire, but look.” Javan pointed, then jumped into the water, his dark hair flailing as he hopped.

“Javan? What madness has seized you?”

Rogan arose to see what had inspired his young nephew’s folly. Javan hopped in waist deep water, gesturing at the brown, sandy beach nearby.

“We made it, sire.” The boy laughed, splashing. “Wodan is merciful. Rhiannon is just.”

Rogan chewed salt from his mustache and stared at the shore. He slid into the cool water, muscles aching, wounds burning. Though in the latter stages of his life, Rogan still felt great strength in his thews.

“Wodan is merciful? Shit fire and spare the flint stones! Wodan is a bitch’s son with a bad sense of humor, boy. I may pray to your goddess, Rhiannon, before this day is out, instead.”

Javan splashed again, then sank beneath the waves and emerged, spraying a mouthful of water.

“Javan, you are acting like a child. Do you still suckle at your mother’s tit? Are all the young men from Albion this foolish? Back in the Caucaus Mountains, we’d have killed many and learned to be Smiths by your age.”

“Death doesn’t lurk around every corner in Albion, Sire.”

Rogan snorted and then said, “Of course it does, you jackass. You’re looking hard enough.”

“Sire, I know that you have cheated death many times in your life. It is an old cloak for you to discard, slipping out of the shadows of the afterlife. But this battle with the pirates and our loss at sea was my first true test. I hope this is the only time I must dodge such a foe.”

“I’ve never cheated death, lad. I’ve only escaped him for a time.”

“Still, I hope to never have to do the same again.” Javan stood, looking up at Rogan.

“All men meet death sooner or later, Javan. The trick is to bend him to your will. That is what I have always done. Nothing more. But my will is strong.”

They waded ashore and collapsed in the warm, sun-baked sand. It stuck to their wounds and their raw skin, scratching and scraping—but neither had ever felt anything more luxuriant. Gulls darted across the beach, their beaks snapping at small, scuttling crabs. Scrub grass swayed in the breeze, and bleached driftwood dotted the dunes. Further inland, a dense forest walled off an immense series of mist-enshrouded mountains. The blue sky brushed against the mountaintops.

Rogan gazed up at the dwarfing spectacle.

Aye, my will is strong, he thought. But death can only be bent over so many times. And as I get slower, his pace stays the same.

They sat in silence for a while, each lost in thought. The surf’s lullaby washed over them.

“It is beautiful, this land,” Javan breathed, spellbound. “The greenery is like an ocean itself. Look at the shafts of light from the sky, how they crease the mists wreathing the mountaintops.”

Rogan nodded. “It almost makes one believe in the gods, eh?”

“Look how far the coast goes on.”

Rogan stretched, his sword dangling over his bare thigh. Javan stood up, brushed the sand from his skin, and walked farther ashore. Rogan remained on the ground, letting the tide lap at him.

“We should attempt to map this new land,” Javan called. “Should we ever return home, our learned men will be grateful.”

Rogan clambered to his feet. “That is not our most pressing matter, Javan. We must make camp. When we do not return, our friends in Olmek-Tikal may come to our aid. At the very least, they shall send a search party to find news of their missing loved ones. Remember—our crew was full of men with wives and children. They will be sought. Let us try to flip this damaged hulk over. Perhaps we can ground her well and take shelter in her belly for the night.”

This task was easier said than done. Leading the damaged vessel to shore was a great labor even in the shallow water, but flipping it over proved impossible, despite Rogan’s strength. They dragged the long ship only a few feet before the mast pole and other materials underneath sank into the wet sand.

Out of breath, Rogan fell on the dry part of beach. As the breeze washed over them, he said, “The damned sea will take her back with the tides.”

“Perhaps it will be shoved further in by the tides or sink in deeper, sire.”

“Always looking on the dazzling side, eh, lad?” Rogan grinned.

“Well, Rhiannon is a goddess of light, Sire.”

Rogan waved him off and looked to the mountains. “What manner of land is this, I wonder? Southern Olmek-Tikal was all full of swamps, marshes, and alligators when we sailed along its coast last year.”

“Not an enjoyable journey, if my mind is sharp, sire.” Javan’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “I’ve no desire to repeat it.”

“Since I saved you from quicksand on two different occasions, I can see why. Scavenge what you can from the beach. It looks as though the seas do not want items that fall to the bottom. We will need all we can salvage if there is life here.”

“Surely the cache of weapons in the rear chamber is intact. If I swim under the ship, perhaps I can retrieve them.”

Approving this idea, Rogan waded back into the water and waited. Piece by piece, Javan retrieved armor and weapons from the rear of the boat, which was still underwater. The youth then tossed them to Rogan, who carried each item to shore. He was stunned by how many times Javan dived and returned with knives or swords.

At last, Rogan called, “Do you need to breathe, boy?”

Javan winked and dove again. This time he returned with a blade in his teeth and a round shield in his left hand. In his right hand was a bottle of wine. Rogan grabbed the bottle and his perpetual scowl gave way to a slight smile.

“You see?” Javan laughed. “Just what we needed.”

Rogan unsealed the wine and said, “We? Dive again for your own.”

He waited until the youth was underwater, and then mumbled, “I swear, the boy is half fish.”

They carried the weapons and water flasks up the beach. Rogan drank deeply from the wine while Javan heaped the weapons in a grassy area out of the reach of the surf.

Rogan sat down and looked back at the water. The alcohol coursed through his veins, easing his pain.

Javan pointed at the sea birds and crabs. “At least there is wildlife in abundance. And I found a fishing rod amidst the weapons.”

“Wonderful. So we will not starve right away.”

“We will only have to survive a brief time, sire. Surely you are correct and others from the southern part of Olmek-Tikal will search for us when we do not return.”

Rogan shrugged, his nostrils testing the sea air. “Probably. If they find us it will be a miracle all in itself. We traveled a long way. They may give up in despair before ever reaching this point.”

“The natives in Olmek-Tikal practically worship you,” Javan reminded him. “They would not desert you any more than I would.”

Brooding, Rogan drank more wine. “Perhaps. We will just have to wait and see. They may be happy to be rid of their white king. Bah—I’ve grown tired of such primitive ignorance, anyway. I came here for adventure, not to be a god to a pack of red-skinned farmers and fishermen.”

Javan took up a bow and a single arrow. He cleared his throat, inspecting the leaves of a squat bush. A swarm of angry gnats arose from the branches and pestered him.

“Welcome home, Javan.” Rogan swept his hand toward the forest. “I bet that when General Thyssen sent you along for maturing, he never dreamed that you’d be shipwrecked with his old king, eh?”

Javan shrugged and drew the string of his bow back. With one shot, he struck a swooping seagull. Squawking, it flopped in the water, and the young man ran into the surf to retrieve his prize, carefully avoiding the body parts of their fellow sailors that were beginning to wash ashore. The sand was stained red.

“At least you are not skittish,” Rogan hollered. “That surf is thick with pieces of our foes. Look how the beach is littered with their limbs.”

Emerging from the water, Javan said, “Sire, I think you complimented me.”

Rogan smiled. “Engrave it in stone, boy. It may be my only testament in such a manner to you.”

A sudden gust of wind blasted off the ocean. Beyond the trees, they heard a deep growl. It did not sound human. It did sound hungry. Exchanging glances, both men took to the bushes.

Out of the trees lumbered a gigantic black bear. As the sea gave up the fruits of their awful triumph over the corsairs, the grisly bits of humanity along the shoreline tempted the animal. It sniffed the air and slowly padded onto the beach, devouring morsels here and there.

“What a beast,” Rogan whispered as Javan leaned close to hear him. “This animal may be just what we need.”

“What say you, sire?”

“Look to that mountain range. Such conditions remind me of the peaks south of Turana. I would guess the temperature drops here at night and in the higher elevations.”

“That is logical.”

“Of course it’s logical. That bear’s coat is thicker than it should be for the late summer season. Perhaps we are farther north than we thought. He grows it not for a coming winter, but for everyday warmth. Since the sea has stripped us down to our loins, the choice is obvious. We must take him for his hide. It will keep us warm.”

The bear raised its head and looked around. Then it continued rooting. Its snout was crimson, and its long, pink tongue licked at the droplets of blood.

“How long since you have last slain a bear single-handed, sire?”

Rogan shrugged. “I cannot recall. But I am not hollowed out just yet. Besides, I have you along. Why should I fear him with your bow at my side?”

Javan breathed a heavy sigh and prepared. “I appreciate your faith, sire.”

“Use the heavy arrows the pirates had. The forked heads are a work of savage art.”

“As you command.”

“We have collected enough of those from the stray quivers on the beach. Wodan knows what else will vomit onto the shore over time. With a good chance we can pierce a lung in that hulk.”

“I will do my best, lord.”

“Keep striking if he doesn’t go down.” Rogan squeezed the handle of a double-headed battle-axe they’d retrieved from the bireme’s mooring links. “I shall do the rest.”

Javan mumbled a prayer to Rhiannon and stealthily positioned himself farther down the line of bushes. Rogan ran down the beach in the open for a few yards. The bear looked up from the rib cage that had washed ashore. The beast spied the older man, but made no effort to follow him. It showed no fear or a desire to hunt a foolish human as easier pickings lay at its feet. Instead, the beast lowered its snout and continued licking the scraps of organs and tissue still clinging to the bones.

Javan fired the first of his arrows into the bear’s side. The beast grunted, and roared. Quickly, Javan drew from the quiver on his back and fired three more times, striking the creature in the side, close to the front quarters, and then the low-hanging belly. He expected the bear to drop, but instead it stood firm.

Rogan loped further out onto the sand with the smooth ease of a tiger and fired his own long bow twice. The first shot missed, but the second arrow struck the bear deep in the other flank. The beast rose up, teeth bared as it howled. Thick flecks of foamy saliva dropped from its jowls.

Rogan let the bow slide from his fingers and drew back, hefting the double-edged battle-axe. He roared in answer to the bear’s challenge. The animal paused. Grunting hard, Rogan flung the heavy axe with all of his might. The weapon tumbled end over end and buried itself under the beast’s open maw, cleaving its jaws.

Staggering, the bear rocked back and forth on unsteady paws, but still refused to fall. Rogan drew his broadsword and charged low, like a bull. The mortally wounded animal tried to roar, but only a weak gurgle issued from its throat. Rogan avoided the desperate claws and stabbed his blade into the bear’s abdomen. Going to all fours, the beast lurched a few steps before collapsing. Rogan danced away again, inadvertently stomping on the leg of some partially eaten shark victim.

The bear shuddered, and then moved no more.

Rogan dropped to his knees and rolled onto his buttocks beside it. He greedily sucked the salty air into his burning lungs.

Javan ran up, whooping in joy.

Rogan eyed the boy and said, “I suppose you expect me to gut and clean him as well?”

Javan smiled. “It is your kill, Uncle.”

“I’ll clout you for that,” Rogan grunted. “But first I must rest.”

It took them the rest of the day to skin and clean the bear, and it was dusk by the time they were finished. They washed their hands in the ocean, cleaning them of the sticky blood, and then Javan started a fire behind a dune and prepared dinner. The meat gleaned from the kill was tough and gamy. Gulls darted over their heads, begging for scraps. Rogan growled at them, and the shrieking scavengers fled into the night.

As they ate, Javan eyed the skeleton of the bireme.

“I was correct, sire. The ship is deeper in the sand now and will not be sucked out to sea.”

“If we ever see Albion again,” Rogan said around a mouthful of half-cooked bear flesh, “I shall give you a medal.”

“We will get back, sire. Some way, some how, we will.”

Rogan shrugged, sucking the marrow from a bone. “Perhaps my destiny is to die here.”

“Banish such thoughts, sire!”

The fire popped, sending a brief shower of burning embers into the night sky.

“If it is my time to die, you get to watch. Your father would say it is a grand joke of fate, eh?”

Javan tilted his head to one side. “My father would never give in to fate.”

Rogan nodded, thinking on old Thyssen and their adventures as revolutionaries. His smile was faint. Old ghosts danced in the flickering firelight. The night of a thousand knives. The whore with three breasts and the secret she’d told in the dark.

“True. You are young. You have space in your gut for fighting fate. My belly has wrestled that demon-whore for eons. She is a tireless bitch and I grow weary of her.”

“I am not ready to die.”

“No man ever is,” Rogan replied. “Yes, you can cheat death, but you can never be ready for it. When death comes, it comes. All that you can do is to meet it.”

The fire crackled again. A second later; a twig snapped in response. Both men were instantly on their feet. Rogan tensed, alert and ready for whatever new danger lay in store.

Javan pointed to the bushes, suddenly alive with creeping shadows.

“Uncle—look!”

The shadows detached themselves from the bushes and a group of humans stepped forward, just outside the circle of light. They were slender, clad in tan loincloths and deerskin cloaks. The strangers carried wooden staffs with tied stone spearheads, and several sported bows of a style that neither Rogan nor Javan had ever seen before. The flames flickered off their dense, ruddy complexions and red-tinged skin. Their obsidian hair shone in the moonlight as if their flat manes were slick and wet.

“Javan,” Rogan ordered, “your bow.”

But the weapon was already in the boy’s hands.

Silently, the group stepped into the dying firelight. A few of the natives bore odd deformities: elongated heads, misshapen ears, one limb longer than another, even bizarre double noses. None made a move to attack. They seemed docile and curious. None of them spoke.

Another figure emerged, dressed in the skins of a gray wolf, the snout and muzzle still intact over his wrinkled forehead. The wolf-man’s eyes glistened in the darkness, and Rogan surmised that his difference in dress made him a leader of some sort.

The odd individual held out his arms, showing the two strangers what he held: the gray, ropy intestines of the dead bear. Flies buzzed around them.

Javan’s nose wrinkled. Slowly, he raised his bow, counting their numbers and wondering about the strength and reach of their spears.

Rogan drew his broadsword, gripping the handle so tightly that his sunburned knuckles turned white.

“Javan?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Speak to me again of fate, when we are done here.”

*

The moon rose higher, bathing them in its cold light. Another log popped on the fire, sending more embers spiraling into the air. Nobody moved. Somewhere in the darkness, a whippoorwill cried out.

“When I was a child,” Javan whispered. “my nursemaid told me that when one heard the song of a whippoorwill, it meant that someone was about to die.”

Rogan wondered if his words rang in the youth’s head…

When death comes, it comes. All that you can do is to meet it.

As the wolf-headed leader stepped closer, Rogan saw Javan shiver.

The leader held forth his grisly offering but remained still, even when the cloud of flies moved from the intestines to his wolf’s head crown. He seemed to be awaiting a response from Rogan and Javan. When it became clear that none was forthcoming, he finally spoke, chattering to his companions.

Rogan frowned. “What in the name of Wodan is he saying?”

Javan, a master interpreter of most known languages because of his studies in Albion’s famed university, concentrated on the speech patterns.

“They do not appear angry, but I cannot pick it up, sire. It is a strange tongue. Give me time.”

“We do not have time. I think they deceive us. The wolf-headed fellow holds the guts of the bear the way a midwife holds a new babe. I probably killed his accursed god.”

“I don’t think so. Look at his body language, the way he holds himself. He is not angry with us. Indeed, he seems to be trying to communicate.”

“My eyes and my wits are not dull, Javan. Of course he’s trying to communicate. The question is; what do they want? Be they friend or foe?”

Cautiously, Javan motioned to the leader. “By his vestments, headdress, and voice inflection, I’d say he is their leader or priest.”

The old man babbled emphatically, as if he’d understood the youth. Javan tried other dialects. After a few moments, he grew excited.

“It is amazing, Rogan. I believe they speak a bastardized form of the language of those in northern Hyrkania. It is almost like a lost dialect I read of in class used only in Anthelia! I know it only because my teachers made such jest of the lingo.”

Rogan remained silent but vigilant as Javan struggled to talk to the natives in this tongue. The red-skinned men seemed to understand him, at least partially. Several smiled, revealing jagged teeth. Then one of them laughed. Javan grinned as well.

“Do you understand them, boy?”

“I do, sire.”

“Good. Now they can tell us for certain if we killed their god.”

Javan shook his head. “No, I was correct. The man wearing the wolf’s head is their priest or wizard. He calls himself a—shaman.”

“Wizard. Shaman. It makes no difference.” Rogan’s blue eyes appraised the leader. “A female dog is still a bitch, different breed or no.”

“The bear isn’t his god, and he respects us for besting it.”

“What else did he say?”

“That when one of their tribe has reached your age, they are usually content to sit beside the fire all day. He wonders if that is your normal position.”

Rogan’s blue eyes flared, never showing amusement. “Why does he hold the animal’s entrails in his hands?”

After some discourse, Javan replied, “To honor us.”

Rogan eyed the group. “What do they want? To share in the kill?”

Again, Javan translated, “He says that this beach is cursed.”

“Bah! He is a huckster. How is it cursed?”

Javan put both of his hands on his temples as he listened to the shaman talk.

“He claims the shoreline is the domain of one of the Thirteen—a deity who can reanimate the dead.”

Rogan’s fingers played across the hilt of his broadsword. He studied the freakish appearance of a few of the red-skinned men. Now that they were illuminated fully by both the fire and moonlight, he could make out even more. Some had two noses or three eyes. Others were covered in boils or oozing sores. Many were completely hairless. One of them possessed a left eye that looked like a figure eight as it split into two orbs. And still another seemed to possess genitalia of extraordinary length and girth, if the bulge in his loincloth were any indication. Rogan had known concubines that would consider that last one a blessing rather than a curse.

Somewhere in the distance, a twig snapped. Again, the forest seemed to be alive, watching him, yet he could not see a thing.

“The Thirteen,” Javan continued, “are not angel or demon, god or devil. Those who come from elsewhere.”

“I know who the Thirteen are,” Rogan snapped, “and I do not fear them enough to memorize their names and sigils and houses. What is our wolf-headed host’s name?”

“This is Akibeel, sire.”

Rogan shrugged and thrust out his hand. The shaman let the dripping intestines slip from his fingers and clasped it. The old man’s slick, gnarled hands were warm and strong.

Javan said, “He invites us to return to his village, rather than staying here on this cursed beach. He offers us food and drink and song. And soft beds.”

“And women?” Rogan arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps the ones I smell in the woods?”

Javan translated for the shaman. Akibeel’s smile faded, and confusion clouded his face.

Rogan laughed. “I can smell the musk of a woman a mile off. Especially one in heat. Give me the wind and a stiff will, and they are mine. A woman has never been able to hide from me, so why hide some in the forest?”

Akibeel understood Rogan’s inference, if not his words. He muttered beneath his breath.

“The women in the forest,” Javan explained, “were standing by in case we attacked these men.”

“Bring out these women,” Rogan said. “I would see them. Let them come forth and drink.”

The moon vanished behind dark clouds, and the campfire seemed to dim as if swallowed by the darkness. Akibeel cried out in panic. He thrust a bony finger toward the distant mountain range.

Rogan yanked his sword from its sheath. “What now, damn it?”

Javan said, “He fears that it is too late and wishes to flee.”

The tribe quickly dispersed, fleeing toward the safety of the forest.

Rogan scowled. “Why do they run away?”

“They fear the beach—the curse.”

“I fear nothing.”

As if he’d understood the warrior king, Akibeel raised one trembling, gnarled finger and pointed at the ocean. Rogan and Javan turned, staring at the surf as something dark emerged from the water. Akibeel whispered.

Rogan frowned. “What did he say?”

Javan gulped. “Be wary of the dead.”

The clouds parted, and the moonlight revealed a line of corpses rising up from the waves. Saltwater dripped from their bloated flesh as they padded onto the sand. One of them still wore a necklace of tiger’s teeth, the chain embedded in its swollen flesh. Another clutched a curved blade in its leathery fingers, yet the top of its head was a gaping hole. Seaweed filled the space where its brain should have been. The creatures shambled toward them.

Rogan recognized them immediately, despite their putrescence. These were the bodies of the pirates they’d slain, animated now and seeking revenge, even beyond death.

“Zombies,” Rogan muttered. “Undead corsairs, no less. Wodan’s sack, I hate zombies.”

One’s bloated stomach was horribly swollen as if it were pregnant. Another was missing a leg below the knee. It hopped on one foot, collapsing every few yards. All of the corpses were in bad shape. Shark-frayed ribbons of flesh hung from their frames. Broken bones poked through their mottled, parchment-thin skin, and shredded lips pulled back against shattered teeth. Their stench was horrific.

With a cry, a seagull darted down out of the night sky and pecked at one of the creature’s ears. The zombie reached up, grasped the bird in its fist, and squeezed. Then it flung the lifeless gull to the sand and continued approaching.

A sixth corpse clambered across the beach. It was missing much of its skin, exposing muscles and veins. A sea-worm tunneled through its neck, and another burrowed through its shoulder. One of the creature’s eyes was missing, and a small hermit crab scuttled in the empty cavity. Seawater ran from the ghoul’s gaping mouth. One of its arms was also gone. The hand on the other arm clutched a curved sword. The creature raised the weapon and pointed it at Rogan in recognition.

Sighing, Rogan rotated his head, listening to his joints pop. “Is there no end to this madness? I have killed them once. Must I kill them a second time?”

Without waiting for a reply, he charged forward to meet his opponents, counting seven of the creatures on the beach, plus seven more heaving themselves from the water. He exploded into their midst, broadsword whistling, cleaving rancid flesh, slicing through decaying muscle and tissue.

One of the zombies parried his follow-up attack, and their swords clanged together. Rogan turned his head away, gagging at the stench. Blocking the curved blade’s descent, he grasped the undead warrior’s arm and tried to pull the creature forward into the point of his broadsword. Instead, the creature’s skin slipped off, revealing bone. The corpse smiled. Its face had been half-eaten by the fish, and the fleshless cheek swarmed with larvae. A seashell jutted from the raw wound where its nose had been.

“Wodan take you, dead man!”

Rogan leaped into the air and lashed out with his leg, kicking the zombie in the head. His boot sank into the soft flesh. He laughed as bits of brain matter and skull fragments splattered onto the wet sand. His landing was graceful, but not nearly as nimble as it would have been ten years before. His agility, like the hair in his salt and pepper mane, lessened with the passing of each winter. Rogan spun on his heels, wheeling to face his next shuffling opponent.

Before he could renew his attack, several arrows sprouted from the chests and throats of the living dead. The shafts were not of the type Javan had been using. Rogan ducked, warned by some primal, battle-honed instinct, as more missiles flew from the forest. The arrows found homes in the monsters, but had no effect.

Several women stepped out of the shadowed woods and silently reloaded their bows. Each sported flowing, shiny black hair.

“I grow weary of this,” Rogan muttered, ducking the clumsy swing of a zombie. “Tonight, I merely wished to sit, drink, and eat, and warm my bones beside the fire—and perhaps explore between the legs of one of these red-skinned women. Now I slay those already dead.”

The dead man’s reply was a gurgled moan.

“To Hell with you all,” Rogan roared and hacked the legs out from under it. “How many times must I kill your lot before you stay dead?”

The pathetic creatures were not much of a fighting force. Still, they swarmed him with their numbers. More poured from the sea. The female archers fell back, lest their hail of arrows strike Rogan. Pulling his sword, Javan sprang forth.

Rogan sliced another zombie in two at the belly. Undaunted, the corpse’s lower half walked on. Its upper portion flopped into the water, and then pulled itself back across the sand. Rogan’s sword fell once, twice, severing the arms. Then he cut the disembodied walking legs in half, dividing the hips. Something grasped his boot. He glanced down, shuddering in revulsion as the decaying hands trailed across his feet, dragging the severed arms behind them.

Javan brought down another slow-moving corpse. A severed hand crawled up his back like a spider, teetered on his shoulder and then clutched at his throat. Shuddering, he yanked the thing off and flung it into the ocean.

“Uncle,” he shouted, “this is madness! There is no way to kill them. Each limb we hack off becomes yet another opponent.”

“Tell that shaman that this is his kind of fight, not ours.”

Javan confessed, “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t? Do as I say, boy.”

“Akibeel isn’t responding. He sits cross legged at the fire, ignoring my pleas. That is why I joined the battle late.”

“What? He picks a poor time to rest!”

“I think he’s in some sort of trance, sire.”

Rogan spat onto the sand. “I hate wizards almost as much as I hate zombies.”

The dead pirates encircled the two exhausted men. Javan and Rogan stood back-to-back, swords held ready. The zombies moved closer. Javan winced at the smell. Rogan blinked sweat from his eyes. The corpses raised their weapons.

“WODANNNNNN!” Rogan roared, preparing himself for the onslaught.

Then, as abruptly as they’d emerged, the undead fell limp and tottered into the surf.

Rogan prodded one of the corpses with his sword, but it did not move.

“This time, let us hope they stay dead.”

“Indeed, sire.”

The bodies began washing back out to sea with the next crashing wave.

Akibeel rose, opening his eyes and shouting into the heavens.

Rogan scowled. “What is he jabbering about now?”

Javan relayed, “Akibeel says that he placed himself in a spell and entreated his gods for a blessing. The blessing came.”

“Well, Wodan bless my ass. Perhaps this wizard can be of use after all. Tell him we will accept his offer of food and shelter and will return to his village.”

Javan and Rogan let their new companions gather up the weapons, pieces of armor, and other useful items scavenged from the bireme since they could not carry the load themselves. The shaman summoned two-wheel wagons pulled by other tribesmen.

“First they call forth women warriors,” Rogan said. “Now wagons. What else do they have hidden in yonder woods? Catapults? Perhaps a hundred fine horses?”

“Akibeel says that is all, sire.”

Javan and the women warriors followed the old shaman into the forest. Rogan looked back to the waves, caught his breath, and studied their twice-killed foes. He felt things he had not experienced in many years.

Youth.

And fear.

Just a twinge, but there all the same.

Javan stopped at the tree line and looked back at his brooding uncle.

“Sire? We must be off. Is everything all right?”

Rogan frowned and looked to the sky. “Just thinking.”

“Of what, Uncle?”

“That I envy you, lad. And that perhaps I was wrong before. Perhaps I have cheated death after all.”