Unbound

Polished — 1h01m42s — 2020/10/04

After two months of crisscrossing back and forth across the eastern half of the Noeth duchy, Brankellus doubted he'd ever catch Petaerus. There were signs of his quarry everywhere; burned out villages, the mournful wailing of scant survivors, and always a couple more ghosts to join his entourage. A growing host of dead followed after Brankellus. They may try to speak with him, but whatever their questions or statements, he could not understand their Saotren tongue. Instead, he made the Trohl signs of mourning and continued on his way. Each day there were two or three more ghosts that followed after him with heavy hearts and weary steps.

Due to the back and forth, Brankellus often saw his enemy riding this way or that, leaving a burned out town, or charging into one of the villages that was lucky enough to avoid the first and maybe a second pass. But the man never held still, and his horse was far too fast for the ghost.

Brankellus was beginning to think he’d never catch his man—then, one morning, he made the edge of camp before the riders woke and began to pack. For some time, maybe an hour in all, he stared at Petaerus as the man slept, and tried a thousand ways to strike him. The ghosts that gathered around him all did the same.

Petaerus began to toss and fidget in his sleep, as if he could sense the animosity of the dead. Suddenly, he woke, frightened and disturbed. He stared about, as if his enemies were upon him—but he saw nothing, only the lightening of the sky as dawn approached. He roused his men, and the camp prepared to depart as the ghosts cried and screamed their hate for the men, all to no avail. Then, like so many times before, Petaerus and his marauders were gone.

Brankellus ignored the wider war, though Petaerus could not. For nearly a month, Petaerus and his marauders played cat and mouse with various outfits, small local militias doing all they could to stop the invaders—and with only verbal support from Land’s End. Despite the back and forth, it became apparent to all that the marauders were inevitably drifting south, toward the Gaurring border.

Brankellus and his band of dead followers passed near a small village, much like the others—only this one was somehow still alive. As Brankellus approached the forest at the edge of the village, horsemen broke from the trees and swarmed toward the hovels and cottages of simple folk. It was the marauders that charged at the sleepy huts, and there, among the attackers, were the telltale feathers of Petaerus.

The horsemen reached the first of the cottages and havoc ensued. But it was not the unsuspecting slaughter Brankellus thought it would be. Men armed and dangerous poured out of the small buildings wearing the various colors of the local militias. Suddenly, there were fighting men everywhere, and the marauders were heavily outnumbered!

Many of the marauders died before they even realized their mistake. An enticing target, this sleepy village was set to ambush the marauders, and it was done in such a clandestine manner that not even the ghosts were aware. The marauders turned and attempted to flee—but more men were hiding in the field! As the marauders turned, a large band of infantry rose from buried hide outs and cut the horsemen off. The slaughter continued though some of the marauders still managed to make the edge of the trees.

The ambush was a thorough victory for the locals and broke the ability of the marauders to sack and pillage as they drifted south. Only a handful of the invaders escaped the slaughter, but despite the many deaths, Petaerus slipped away despite several injuries.

Brankellus trudged onward, but he was not the only one in pursuit. The locals sought to kill every last one of the marauders and followed them into the woods, even across the border of Gaurring—until they came across a troop that carried the kite insignia. Grumbling and unable to finish off their enemies, the Noethrin militias returned to their own lands.

But Brankellus was not subject to Gaurring jurisdiction, and having separated from the other survivors, Petaerus was not protected by these men of Gaurring. Injured, and still fearing pursuit, Petaerus made his way into wilderness. The living men did not see his trail—but Brankellus could not be fooled. He saw where his quarry slipped away and followed the Ministrian deep into the wilds. It took a day more until Brankellus found Petaerus at the edge of a lake. He was wounded and had bandaged himself in several places. None of the injuries were life threatening on their own, but all together they'd taken a great toll on the man.

For days, Brankellus cursed and railed at his enemy. He stuck his fingers in the man's wounds and begged them to spoil. For a night and day, the soldier was bothered by the taunting spirits—but then, after a time, he simply ignored them. Brankellus raged and called down the fury of the gods as Petaerus rested and slowly regained his strength at the edge of the lake.

Since Petaerus escaped, he'd set traps, fished, and foraged fruits and vegetables he knew he could eat. Brankellus was astounded by the man's resourcefulness, and as the first days passed, he despaired to know the man would live. Anguished at his inability to do anything to this vile man, he stood near a trap and wailed for a time, then collapsed and cried.

The other ghosts gathered around Brankellus and made the Trohl sign for mourning, as he had done for them. With their hands to their bowed faces, they looked up to the sky and threw their arms out. Again and again they made the sign as Brankellus continued to thrash and mourn.

Then, something approached along the game trail and stepped into the small thicket. It was a deer, curious and cautious as it approached the trap set by Petaerus. It be quite a boon for the wounded trooper if the deer should step into the snare. Brankellus screamed and yelled at the animal. He charged forward as he raged at the stupid beast. As he struck the beast, a shiver of fear shot through the creature and it pulled away from the ghost. Spooked, the deer turned and bolted in the other direction.

Brankellus stared after the beast and remembered how he'd panicked the horses so very long ago. He turned to see the other ghosts talking excitedly and gesturing about the woods in a wild manner. A few of them understood what had happened and knew its significance. They’d seen Brankellus spook the deer. It was not caught, and now Petaerus could not eat it! Smiles lit among the host of dead and they spread about searching for traps and snares in the woods while others stepped into the lake and followed the lines set by Petaerus and proceeded to spook any fish that approached his bated hooks, any animal that wondered near his various devices.

Petaerus was still quite weak, and the few fruits and vegetables he could forage was not enough to carry him through his plight. For days, the ghosts spooked away any game. Petaerus was unable to catch anything. A couple of the man's wounds healed clean—but a couple others persisted. With nothing but water and a few leaves and berries for succor, the captain's strength ebbed and dwindled. He grew weak. In his weakened state, infection appeared about his persisting wounds. Petaerus became delirious and began to panic. He could not understand why his traps and fishing lines that worked so well for several days were now failing him. At first, he was quite sure there was plenty to catch and plenty to eat in the area, and that he should be fine if only the Noethrin didn’t catch him. But now, nothing bit. Nothing caught in his ingenious snares. Now, the woods were quiet, as if all the game simply turned and went elsewhere. He did not know there was such a host of ghosts all about, some that climbed the trees and spooked even the squirrels and chased crows away.

The slow march of days continued, and Petaerus wept and moaned as he feverishly checked one trap after the next, only to find them all empty. In his dizzy condition, Petaerus broke several of his traps, which caused him to cry. The same happened with the fishing lines. Petaerus cast them back, not realizing the bait had slipped the hook, or that he broke the line and cast nothing into the water. Several lines were tangled. More traps were ruined. Soon, there was no need for the ghosts to sabotage him at all. In his weakened, hazy condition, Petaerus unwittingly sabotaged himself.

Instead of spooking animals, the ghosts gathered around the delirious captain and watched him slip closer and closer to death. Petaerus sobbed and wailed, then fell into a fitful sleep only to wake, check the one trap he could remember, and perhaps the tangled knot of lines in the nearby water. Flies and biting insects followed and tortured the man. In a stupor, he languished at the edge of the lake as the chill of night overcame him. He shivered and woke repeatedly as the night continued, but had not the strength to make it back to his blankets.

As the man’s misery increased, more and more of the ghosts could not abide it. With tears of their own, many turned and walked away from the dying man's suffering. They looked up into the starry sky and begged their gods to rescue them. Some of them were indeed taken. They rose slowly from the ground, or shot into the sky, while others simply walked off into the woods.

To do what? Brankellus wondered. To wander the world unseen? Among a few others, Brankellus was cold and relished the pain and suffering of his quarry. Though he could not remember why, he felt it was just to see Petaerus squirm and thrash about. He stood and watched until the bitter end.

For over a day, Petaerus did not stir from his spot except to stretch or shift his position, or to whimper. He did not even have the strength to properly weep anymore. His breathing was ragged and labored. As Brankellus watched the man die, he realized he could not even remember why he wanted the man to die. He must have done something awful to justify such a troubled end—but the specifics were gone.

Finally, the death rattle sounded, and the spirit of Petaerus lifted out of his body. He stood, and the Ministrian soldier saw Brankellus and the other ghosts gathered about him. Confusion, suspicion, and fear stared back at Brankellus. Brankellus wondered why he loathed this spirit. He knew he had reason, but it was suddenly gone from him.

Whatever it was, Petaerus had the look of it. With a heaviness in his eyes, he could not lift into sky like so many of the dead. Instead, he turned and slumped away into the dark woods as he hissed and cursed at the other ghosts about him. He snorted and bellowed and trudged away on heavy feet, looking for something… Brankellus and the others let him go.

For a time, Brankellus watched after the angry ghost. He wondered if Petaerus remembered him or why they were angry with each other. For a time, he thought to follow the ghost and to ask the reason. But Brankellus was tired and did not want to see Petaerus ever again. he wanted to forget the man. Instead of following, Brankellus turned and walked into the woods in the other direction. He scratched at his head as he stepped among the dark trees. Why was he still here? What was it he meant to do? He continued to walk, one tired step after the last, not knowing where he might go or what he was looking for, only hoping to know it when he found it. There was a time when he still knew what he was doing among the living. But that time had passed. Now there was nothing—and the spirit of Brankellus seperated from the others and wandered into the wilds searching after—searching after what?

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