BoD B2C3 - Fall (Patreon)

The countryside rolled past, slowly. Every now and again, Tyron would lift his head from his notes, or the chunk of bone he was working on, to glance at the ruined landscape and sigh.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. The hordes of rift-kin unleashed from the break had likely been concentrated to the east, but that didn’t mean none had come south to these plains. In the shadow of the Boundary mountains, small villages dotted the landscape, farming communities spread out like a patchwork blanket.

After the harvest, the bulk of the crops and livestock would travel to Foxbridge and from there be taken downriver to the larger cities on packed barges.

Not this year.

The small villages were easy pickings. The monsters had ravaged the landscape, ripping through the fields and anyone they’d found along the way. A devastating loss of life and land that would set the development of these lands back decades.

And for what?

“I think that’s smoke,” Tyron muttered after another quick scan of the horizon.

“That’s a little odd. Nothing should be burning at this point,” Dove remarked.

“Survivors?”

“Unlikely, but possible. Tough fuckers if they’re still scraping a living out here.”

That was true. Without the support of the community and most of the animals slaughtered, there wasn’t much to live off. There was, of course, another possibility.

“Gold piece says it's bandits,” Dove said.

Tyron rolled his eyes.

“What are you going to do with gold, Dove? You can’t eat, don’t need clothes, can’t have sex, or do anything really. Why do you want my damn gold?”

“Firstly, that gold belonged to the slayers of Woodsedge. Don’t say ‘my damn gold’ as if you have some legitimate claim to it. Secondly, that’s hurtful. I don’t need to be reminded of my dickless state. Thirdly, I’m bored and want to bet. You in or out.”

“Out,” Tyron said as he reached behind to grasp his sword by the scabbard, dragging it forward and onto his lap.

“Smart.”

In remote communities like this, the law was often a suggestion more than a guarantee. The only time of year they reliably saw any official of the state was tax time. Now, even that thin veneer was lost. Preying on other survivors, looting farmsteads, doing whatever they could to hold on until civilisation returned. Then, they would sweep everything under the rug and go back to life as it had been.

"I'll take the minions and go have a look."

"You going to leave me here? I don't want to miss the fun!"

"There might not be any fun, Dove. Just a few farmers trying to eke out a living with trampled crops and trying to bury their dead."

"Bury the dead? What a complete waste."

"Also, showing up with a glowing skull sort of screams, 'Necromancer', don’t you think?"

"Having ten skeletons trailing along behind you doesn't?"

"I won't stroll in with them!"

Tyron had his minions stop moving with a mental command and climbed down from the cart. From a bundle tied up in coarse cloth, he extracted the small arsenal they'd amassed and passed it out. The skeletons grasped the arms he handed them in their cold, bony fingers, no sound except the occasional scrape of bone on bone emanating from the undead. The smoke they'd seen was still two kilometres away, too far for anyone to be able to see the true nature of the creatures he stood with. It was risky, but he'd need to leave them a distance away if he wanted to conceal what he was.

"I'll be back soon," he told the skull sitting on the cart. "Don't do anything crazy."

The light in the skull's eyes flickered disapprovingly.

"Your attempts at humour, specifically aimed at my expense, are unwelcome."

"Thanks, Dove."

"Go and get yourself killed."

"Fuck you too," Tyron smiled as he finished buckling his sword at his waist.

A few copper coins in his pouch, a little food and water in his pack, and he looked just like any other traveller, if a little better armed. Hopefully, they wouldn't test him with his blade, since Tyron remained quite inept with it. If he needed to defend himself, it would be his spells doing the heavy lifting. As he trudged along the path, the source of the smoke grew clearer in the distance. The source appeared to be a settlement, or what used to be one. Not quite a village, it was a cluster of farm houses built together for protection, which hadn't done much, apparently. Not long ago, it probably housed five or six families. Now, who could tell?

Four main houses, a couple of barns, a stable even. Looks like it was a successful community, certainly the surrounding fields appeared as if they'd been neat and well maintained before the break. In Tyron's mind, you could judge a farmer by the state of the fences. In Foxbridge, Mayor Arryn's fences were always straight as an arrow and tight as a drum. The moment a post started to show signs of rot, it was ripped out and replaced, even the older stone fences were upkept religiously. Contrast that with farmer Connal, who constantly lost stock due to gaps in his crumbling boundary fence, and one could tell who was prosperous with a glance.

Despite the obvious damage the kin had done on their way through, Tyron could tell these had been good fences.

His gut soured. If these had been wealthy farmers, that didn't bode well for what he would find.

A cold wind cut through him and he drew his cloak a little tighter about himself as he continued to walk along the worn path toward the settlement. It was still midday, but the clouds overhead meant the light was more dim than would otherwise be expected. With a thought, he ordered his minions to draw closer. In these conditions, they shouldn't be spotted if he brought them forward a touch. His eyes scanned the buildings carefully, expecting an arrow to come flying at him any moment.

The main houses had been built in a square pattern, protecting a small courtyard between them and it was from there the smoke originated. A bonfire, perhaps? When he stood a hundred metres away, he stopped and waited, watching carefully.

No movement greeted his eye, nor did anyone hail him.

For a long moment, he considered turning and walking away. These people had nothing to do with him, he had no obligations towards them, and the setup looked worse and worse the longer he looked at it. If they didn't greet him outside, it probably meant they wanted to lure him closer, perhaps bring him within the compound before they approached him, and by that time it would be too late for him to run. Of course, he may just be paranoid. Innocent folk trying to salvage what was left of their life. Perhaps they didn't have anyone watching this direction.…

Unlikely.

Tyron sighed. He would go in, he knew he would. He hoped it was because he wanted to help people. If they were struggling survivors, he could offer some assistance, put them in contact with other groups, maybe do a little trade before he went on his way. He could leave them a little better off than when he found them. It'd happened a couple of times.

If they were bandits, then he could rid the area of them and make life easier for others who were struggling under their thumb. It wasn't pretty, but it was necessary if people were going to make it through the next few months.

It wasn't because he needed the bodies. He hoped it wasn't.

Finished questioning his motives, he firmed his resolved and resumed his slow walk along the dirt path. Soon, the buildings loomed overhead, but still, there was nothing to be heard, nor any faces to be seen. The structures had obviously been hit during the break. Scratches in the stonework, wooden window coverings battered in or hanging from their hinges were sure signs of struggle. The surrounding fences had taken a lot of damage. The kin weren't interested in buildings, but they would have homed in on the signs of life here in the compound. Bodies of fallen creatures from Nagrythyn still littered the ground here and there. Arrows, it looked like, though someone had come to retrieve them after the fact.

Good sign. Someone survived the initial attack at least.

Stepping cautiously, Tyron moved between two buildings, the gap between them only wide enough for a cart to fit through. He could hear the fire now, crackling away as it chewed through the still damp wood, the occasional pop and sizzle punctuating the sound of flames. He kept a hand on the hilt on his blade as he readied a spell, the magick coiling in him as it answered to his call.

"Greetings, friend," a cheerful voice sounded from behind.

Holy shit.

Tyron nearly jumped as he snapped around to see a humble looking man smiling at him from a few metres away. Heart hammering in his chest, he tried to sum up this new figure as quickly as he could. Farm clothes, dirty hands, middle aged perhaps. One of the owners here, or a farm hand?

"You near scared me to death," Tyron said as he pretended to relax his posture, a forced smile on his face. "You creep up on every visitor like this?"

"As best I can, yes," the man held both hands up to show he was unarmed, but made no move to approach. "Pays to be careful these days. Since the monsters came through, people are resorting to desperate measures in order to eat, you know how it is."

This time, Tyron was careful to keep an eye behind him, standing side-on to his welcomer.

"Of course," he said smoothly, "it's most unfortunate." He gestured to the bonfire behind him. "I saw your fire and wondered if I could help. People need to look out for each other if we're going to make it through. Is there anything you need doing? Any messages I can carry for you?"

The man smiled wryly.

"Well, I can think of a few things you can do," he said. "Why don't we step inside and get warm around the fire so we can discuss it."

The expression on the young Necromancer's face grew tight.

"Sure thing," he said, then swept his hand before him, "after you."

The farmer's hands lowered to rest on his hips. He shook his head.

"You first, traveller," his voice hardened, "I insist."

Minions, come.

It would take time for the skellies to reach him. He had to delay. Tyron considered attacking the person in front of him, but decided against it. There was no chance he wasn't being watched by others. If he tried to flee, he'd catch an arrow in the back from an upstairs window. Moving slowly, Tyron removed his hand from the hilt of his sword.

"I don't need any trouble," he said. "You can just let me walk away."

"Maybe I don't want to," the man grunted as others now revealed themselves. Two dirty looking men with grim faces stepped around the corner and approached Tyron from behind.

He tensed, spells at the ready, but didn't let them fly just yet. The two newcomers grabbed him roughly by the arms, one of them reaching around to unbuckle his belt and throw the scabbard to the ground.

"What do you want us to do wit' 'im, Davon?" one said.

Tyron leaned back. By the five, this guy had shocking breath.

"Take him in. Monty'll want to see him before anything gets done."

"We can just off him now," the other beside Tyron spoke slyly, "hide the body and keep the coin between us."

The man called Davon shook his head, a frown creasing his brow.

"And if Monty found out, you'd be strung up and left for the crows. You think it's worth it for a few copper? Don't be an idiot."

"I'd rather not be offe'd," Tyron said, "if it's all the same to you."

"Shut up."

A cuff across the jaw was his reward for opening his mouth and Tyron cursed himself. Dove was rubbing off on him more than he thought.

Don't talk smart with the bandits, idiot, he reprimanded himself.

The two dragged him inside, Davon bringing up the rear. Not wanting to be beaten unnecessarily, Tyron played along, cooperating on the surface but keeping his magick steady. The chances these back country folk had ever seen a Mage was slim, at least one that didn't work in irrigation. If any of them could sense the arcane energy he held, ready to release in an instant, he'd be stunned. They held his shoulders and arms on both sides, but there was plenty he could do without the use of his hands. A magick bolt might not be enough to kill, but he could hardly miss at this range, and it would surely knock them down. Failing that, he could use Fear. Suppress mind was another option, but he didn't want to be caught in a battle of wills when there was more than one opponent.

With Sleep at level five, there was a chance he could force it onto them even if they tried to resist. All he had to do was delay. Once the minions arrived, he could turn the tables.

They stepped into the courtyard, and Tyron felt his chest grow cold and his throat constrict. It appeared as though the original inhabitants might have survived the rift-kin in decent shape. The compound was quite defensible, after all. With archers above and barricades between the buildings, they could fight off the monsters quite well. Since none of the bigger, more dangerous ones had come south, it was more than feasible. Sadly, that appears to have been where their luck ran out.

The men had been staked.

They were still there, dead bodies soaked in blood, suspended from the sharpened wood that burst from their chests. It looked as if they'd made some sort of sport, or ritual of it. Eight stakes, each adorned with its own corpse, surrounded the bonfire in the centre of the courtyard. The pools of blood that had dripped from their hanging feet had curdled and dried in place. They'd been there a week at least, Tyron judged as he studied the scene.

"I don't see the women or children," he said quietly.

"Well ya wouldn't, would ya?" laughed the man on his right.

"So they're still alive?"

"Shut up."

Another fist knocked his head sideways as they pulled him around the gripping spectacle. There were a few other men around, lounging near the bonfire. They watched him being dragged in with interest, muttering to each other and laughing raucously at their crude jokes. Tyron counted them carefully, six, seven, eight. Definitely more upstairs in the buildings. It was going to be tight.

Hurry up, you damn piles of bones.

The skeletons couldn’t run. The best they could manage was a decently swift walk, close enough to a march. Judging by the drain on his magick, exaggerated by the distance between them, they were moving as quickly as they could. It would be a little longer.

"Tie him to a post," Davon said, now clearly bored. "We'll search him and leave him 'till Monty gets back."

Tyron flicked a glance over his shoulder to see the man who now held his sword, the blade extended from the scabbard as he inspected the edge.

"Hey, my father gave me that sword," he cursed.

"And now you've donated it to me. Cheers for that."

Without ceremony, he allowed himself to be dragged towards a nearby fence where he was kicked down to his knees, his hands pulled behind his back and hurriedly tied to the post. With that done, the men rifled through his pockets, stripping off his cloak and relieving him of his possessions.

"He's got bugger all, mate," they reported to Davon.

"Leave him, then."

A cry of alarm rang out from above.

"Big group coming. Something’s wrong wit 'em!" came a call from the second floor.

The three around him turned to see the cause of the disturbance.

Tyron smiled.