[b]Chapter 1: The Black Marsh[/b]

It was a cloudy and cold evening, a strong breeze tore in every bush and dead tree. Only a few rays of the last sunlight slipped through the dark clouds from high above, settling upon the grim fields below. Grim. That was a mild word to use for this place, a dark bog with burned out trees and vegetation, a perpetual mist that hugged itself close to the ground, and the first frost of the winter encrusting the landscape all around. As with all other days, it was eerily silent in the bog. Not a cricket or chirp to be heard, not a living thing to be found. Only the howling wind and the laments of the dead. Hidden in the low mist were countless of bodies of both men and horses, banners carrying the seal of various lords and nations were stuck in the mud, their torn heraldry flying in the wind. For the southern marshes of the Northlands were a site of seemingly endless war, untold lives had been lost in a struggle that had gone nowhere. Except today. Today was quiet, the dead had been left at peace to rest within the dubbed Black Marsh until their bodies could be recovered and granted an honorable burial - at least that's how any man would wish it. Throughout the vast bog and mist men seemingly arose from where they lay, some with their weapons still in hand, others without. They were not organized, nor did they speak to one another. They did not regroup or support those that may have been worse off with their injuries. They were clad in various type of armour, some in plate and mail, others in boiled leathers. Some still carried a shield of which sigil professed their allegiance to a lord - once.

Now they had no allegiance, no nationality. They shuffled and moved through the marsh in silence, some in groups, others alone. Some stood still and simply stared into the cloudy sky above, the rest swayed on the spot with their heads lowered toward the ground. There were hundreds of them, maybe thousands, and the mist kept them hidden, it showed no signs of dissipating.

A sharp clank echoed throughout the dead fields, but the risen soldiers gave it little attention. Another clank, loud but brief. Some of the dead had begun to twist on the spot to face the same direction. North. The sound of a rumbling thunder had finally caught their care. The clanks grew more frequent, closer, and soon voices were heard in the distance, but these were no voices of a greedy looter who exclaimed in joy upon finding something valuable. The thunder increased, but it did not come from above. It came from the north. Voices cried out again from the mist, and the voices turned into a unanimous warcry.

Emerging from the mist came a row of riders, sitting ontop of their destriers. They were clad in dark mail and steel, an ebon cloak flowing behind each man. Lances and swords were the weapons of choice, nearly every rider carried a grey heater shield along with a gilded rearing lion as a sigil. Some held in banners, their sigil and colour the same as the shields. For a marsh, the row of mounted troops rode forth with tremendous speed, and behind them came another row, and another behind them. Hundreds of men and horses erupted from seemingly thin air, riding in a wide rank formation, straight for the rising corpses. The undead, bereft of fear, turned to face the living and let out blood-chilling shrieks before they surged forward with the same speed as a living person. The clash that followed could've been made into a tale alone to frighten rowdy children during their bedtime. The warcry of the mounted host culminated as the first rank rode down the living dead with ease, limbs and weapons were separated from the bodies as a hail of swords came crashing down upon them. Lances were driven through skulls and some even broke upon impact, and horses trampled the corpses as if they were made of air.

[i]"Kill the wretches! Ride them down!"[/i]

The mounted army continued on with little resistance, leaving a bloodbath and fresh corpses in their wake as they cut down the dead by the hundreds. At the front of the army rode a single man, clad in similar armor as the rest, other than his longsword and greathelm - nor did he carry a shield.

[i]"Leave none standing!"[/i]

On the flanks, the riders broke off into two columns and steered away from the main host. They swiftly picked up the pace and gained distance from the rest of the army, disappearing off into the mist to hunt down any stragglers that they may have missed. The rest of the army proceeded forward, cutting down the few dozen of undead that still stood in their way before the rider at the front shouted out an order, and the formation started to dissipate. Riders branched off into various directions, most set off after the columns in their hunt for any remnants, while the rest sought themselves to higher ground further ahead. The rider who had been at the head of the army held in the reins to stop, and turned in the saddle to glance backwards. Silhouettes of men upon horses were visible all over. Some had dismounted and walked the marsh, executing any still living dead with a thrust to the skull with their steel swords.

The rider kept his longsword by his right side, the tip pointing downward. He wasn't sure how long he had stood and watched his comrades in arms searching the wetlands for surviving abominations, but the next thing he knew was that another rider stood a distance away from him.

"Sire! We have stripped the marsh clean of the undead. Not a single one remains."

He reached for his helmet to lift it off and tuck it under his left arm. He recognized the voice of the man who had addressed him.

"Very well, Sir Arthur. Give the order to have the dead collected and burned."

The knight replied with a firm nod and then pulled in the reins to turn his warhorse around, riding off to execute the order.

Leofric twitched a frown and let out a silent sigh. He had been king for a decade, but it never got any easier to put his own countrymen to the sword, even if they had been undead. He shakes his head to dismiss the thought and sheathes his sword. He heard incoherent yells from around the marsh and soon saw lights flicker to life, his men had begun to torch the corpses spread throughout the blood-soaked bog. The king nodded to himself and spurred his destrier onward, back toward the direction he had led the charge from.