Bound

Polished — 01h16m39s — 2020/07/07

The sun rose over the horizon and set its unerring gaze upon the remains of Camp Calderhal. After six hours of conflict and fire, the walled town was a shadow of its former self; her walls breached in a dozen places. Shops, homes, the tents of the poor—even several of the stone structures that held the governing Degorouth and their Ministrian allies—now lay in smoldering ruin. The stone tower was heavily damaged, and its integrity questionable, as it now held the greatest of the waokie chiefs.

The condition of the Invader’s Fort was not quite so dire. She was also breached in several places, including the tunnel—which was quickly improved and extended by the bugbear. Most of the Fort was still held by the Ministrians, of which there were perhaps a thousand; and their slaves, of which there were perhaps twice as many. Nobody knew the number of waokie, as they came in waves, but all agreed they seemed endless.

Yet, as the sun rose, the waokie were feeling the weight of their pillage and bloodlust. With the rising sun, they abandoned their press and retreated from the Invader’s Fort to the comfort and smolder of Camp Calderhal. The remains of the wall were still manned by the most suspicious and maniacal elements of the waokie, while their marauding brothers rested.

Those humans that remained in the Invader’s Fort felt safe for the time—likely until nightfall—when they figured the war of waokie would bare down on them once more. Bloody and haggard from a long night of fighting their enemies, Petaerus and Dolif took council as they stood in the corner of a convenient tower, and gazed over the survivors. There was general disorder among many of the remaining guards and such a fear among a quarter of the civilians that panic spilled over and created dramas of the worst sort. The shock of the night was still very much upon them—though matters were generally calming as the day wore on.

“What do you think?” Petaerus asked.

Dolif shrugged, “Seven hundred, eighty-four…” he hedged.

“Seven hundred, eighty-four?” Petaerus snorted. “That’s precise.”

Dolif eyed his friend. “I finished up with our own, so I got an exact number.”

“You counted our men to the last?” Petaerus asked.

“Plus or minus a hand. That’s why I shrugged,” Dolif noted.

“Why not say 800?” Petaerus asked.

"‘Cause I got Seven hundred, eighty-four!” Dolif snapped. “What’d you get?!” he demanded of his friend.

“Eight or nine hundred,” Petaerus shrugged as he eyed the roiling mass of survivors.

“Well then, eight hundred or nine hundred,” Dolif recanted.

“No, I like seven hundred, eighty-four,” Petaerus insisted. “Well then,” he continued. “We have seven hundred, eighty-four men to drive a wedge through the waokie, break their line, and make a run for Rynth Falls.”

“We could stay here,” Dolif noted.

“And what? Wait for rescue?!” Petaerus sneered. “Even if a caravan came through, it’d be 500 soldiers tops. Two days ago, we had nearly 3000 in this fort alone!”

Dolif shrugged. “We could hole up.”

“Sounds like a good way to get cornered and gored if you ask me!” Petaerus snorted “I’d rather die fighting!”

“I don’t want to die at all,” Dolif noted.

“Stay here and I guarantee it!” Petaerus chortled. “The only reason we aren’t dead already is because the woakie were tripping over themselves to get at us!” He shook his head. “Our only hope is to punch a hole through their siege and make a run for it—that or these bastards eat us for lunch.”

“I feel like we’re damned no matter what we do,” Dolif noted. “They’ll chase us all the way to Rynth Falls, and likely they’ll make a mess of that town too.”

“That’s because you’ve never been to Rynth Falls,” Petaerus stated. “Beautiful town. High walls...”

“Still needs men,” Dolif shrugged.

Petaerus grinned at his friend, “The Degorouth are in Rynth Falls, and the disaffected Bouge...”

“Better have twice as many,” Dolif snorted.

“There’re also two legions of shock troops,” Petaerus confided.

Dolif turned to his friend with a skeptical frown, “There’re two legions in Rynth Falls?”

Petaerus nodded.

“I’d take two legions,” Dolif said, the light of hope touching in his eyes. “Why are there two legions in Rynth Falls?”

Petaerus ignored the question—mostly because he didn’t have the answer. He knew the men were there—but not why. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “Who in your estimation is in charge around here?”

“Grandus Sophenauper is the highest rank I’ve seen,” Dolif answered.

Petaerus snorted. “He’s an out and out coward, and his men are mostly sycophants and lick-spittles. You can forget about him.”

“After him, there’s Copals Wilkus, Drastorig, Breanna, and...”

“Drastarig?” Petaerus interrupted. “Drastarig the Gorpulent?!”

“Don’t know any other,” Dolif nodded. “Ran into him yesterday—says he’s on his way to Rynth Falls, of all places.” Dolif turned to Petaerus with a frown. “You know, the more I think about it, the more I think something big is about to go down, what with two legions and Drastarig’s company of raving acolytes in the area.”

“Do you know him?” Petaerus asked.

Dolif nodded. “I spent a month with him and his men in Borzia, They’re reputation is well deserved. They’re very dangerous, and not all there,” he confided. “Drastorig has a tendency to eat whatever he kills—especially people.”

“Hence why they call him the Gorpulent,” Petaerus nodded. “Is he any sort of a politician? Can he pull this rabble together and lead us out of here?”

Dolif shook his head. “They’ll be smoothing the chinks from their knives, and drinking their fill, before they consider anything else. He won’t be much interested in politicking either—but we can use him to rally the others—so long as your plan means he gets to kill.”

“Well, Dreanna is feckless, and Wilkus is a witless boob,” Petaerus said as his frown increased. He named off another half dozen lesser officers as he peered over the ranks below and shook his head in disappointment.

“Might as well call them Stupid, Frightened, Weak, and Worthless,” Dolif said as he agreed with his friend’s estimation. “Figures that most of the useless weight is at the top. At least we have Drastarig around.”

“Well, there’s still some fire and iron among the lower men,” Petaerus said. “And if we can get Drastarig to back us, I bet we can buffalo most of the higher ups. We’ll make a coalition yet!

“Come!” Petaerus continued as he proceeded to climb down from the tower. “Let’s go see who among these others still has any sense about them! The more that go south, the more likely a few of us might make it all the way to Rynth Falls!”

Petaerus, Dolif, and a good number of their confederates circulated among the survivors. Through reasoning, negotiation, and a couple well timed threats from Drastarig and his entourage of maniacs; Petaerus managed to impose his plan upon the remaining shock troops. His plan was simple; tend the injured, gather supplies, and rest up. Then, as the sun approached its zenith, the remaining guards would press through the south gate and drive a wedge through the waokie line behind Drastarig and his raving acolytes, aided by whatever civilians wished to fight. Drastarig and the guard would clear and hold a path while the rest of the civilians and slaves pressed south with all possible haste. Then, the guards would fight a delaying action until they reached the relative safety of Rynth Falls—or until they were overcome trying—preferably the former.

“There’s a mess of civilians that want to stay,” Dolif noted.

“Any soldiers among them?” Petaerus asked. “If so, remind them of their oath. We can’t have the enlisted men considering their own ideas.”

“If they refuse?”

Petaerus snorted. “We’ll hang us a couple cowards before we go.”

Dolif shrugged, “Looks to be all civilians.”

“To them, I say good luck,” Petaerus tipped his helmet with Meu’s two feathers still in it. “Who knows, maybe a handful will live—to be haunted by the screams of those that don’t hide so well,” he shrugged and spit in the dirt. “And while we consider the lost, shall we check on the slaves?”

No fighting occurred anywhere near the slave pens, so Petaerus was surprised to find two dead guards and a massive hole in the fence as he approached the pens. "Who are these?!" He raged and noted the guards were missing their weapons. He rolled the dead men on their backs, that he might see them, and examine their wounds.

Dolif shrugged and wiped soot and blood from his face. "Whoever it is, they deserve to be forgotten," he spit, and barely glanced at the bodies. "So far from the real fight, it is best they died. We need no cowards among us."

Petaerus stared at the pale face of Derris as he ran his fingers along the twin feathers the dead guard found for him. He shook his head. "I cannot fault these men for following orders," he said as he leaned over the corpse and addressed it directly. "Derris, you fool. Who killed you?"

Petaerus almost felt bad. After all, he gave Derris and Jethersen orders to remain, that they might be humiliated. Instead of joining the battle, the two guards must watch from afar, robbed of any chance for glory; after all, how hard was it to watch over mere prisoners, demoralized and cowed for so very long?

But nothing had gone as Petaerus expected. Not only had he underestimated the waokie, he'd underestimated at least a few among the slaves. There was still some heart among that sorry lot, some few opportunistic rats willing to take a chance—and capable of killing two trained and dangerous soldiers to boot.

Petaerus looked through the hole in the fence. On the other side, prisoners milled about. Just the sight of them filled the senior guard with rage. He jumped through the hole and gave chase among the slaves.

The prisoners sprang away and ran in all directions. Petaerus overcame an old man and pounced on him. He wrestled the weak old man to the ground, sat on him, then pulled his knife.

"Who has done this?!" he pointed through the ruined fence. "Who has escaped and killed my men!?"

"I dunno!" the old man confessed, wide eyed, and pleading.

Petaerus struck the old man.

"Please! Please believe me! I was just shown the hole!" the old man begged as he shielded himself with his arms.

"By your mother, you better tell me true!" Petaerus snapped.

"True! By Jeiju, I swear it!"

Petaerus struck the old man again. "I spit at your beggar god!"

"By Naharan..." The prisoner began.

Petaerus punched him in the mouth. "Don't sully her name, Trohl!"

Blood dripped from the prisoner's lips as he coughed and sputtered. A voice cut in from among the other prisoners that gathered at a safe distance. "It was the foreigners!" he shouted.

“Who!?” Petaerus called.

“It was a Saot—a true Saot—and a man as black as night, and another, a native Trohl among ‘em,” the voice materialized from the crowd, one of the few men of middle age. “They were here for only a day or two.”

"You know this?" Petaerus called back.

"I believe it,” the interrupter replied. “They left the hut almost as soon as the bell began, and no one has seen them since."

"Despite protocols you came out," Petaerus reprimanded.

"There is a war going on!” the prisoner admonished. “We must escape this place or perish!”

It was hard to fault these cattle for a certain amount of panic. Petaerus looked down at the old man he’d captured. "You are rats, but you are loyal rats," he said as he shook the ragged prisoner.

"Don't hurt him!” The other prisoner called. “He's done nothing wrong!"

Petaerus glared at the distant man, "You give orders?!" he snapped.

"I beg only our due," the man said, his open hands to his sides.

Petaerus sneered as a surge of violent indignation overcame him. He’d seen such a large number of his brothers fall and die the night before, and his anger was quick to rise. “You’re cowards! So I’ll give you a coward's due!" he snapped, and with that, he stabbed the old man in the stomach.

The old man screamed and a collective gasp washed through slaves.

"Be comforted," Petaerus sneered at the old man as he wiped his nose and stood. "Likely, the rest of us won’t be far behind you.”

“Sir...” Dolif tapped his friend’s shoulder. He wore a look of worry and trepidation as he stared at the milling slaves. “We might consider a sharp change in tactics if we hope to lead any of them into Rynth Falls,” he whispered. “Indeed, we’ll need a sharp change if we hope not to be mobbed and lynched.”

There was a frantic energy about the slaves. They were scared, despondent, resentful—and likely to act in a rash manner. Petaerus glanced at his own twenty guards and frowned as he realized he was heavily outnumbered. He cleaned his knife and sheathed it. He spread his arms and smiled warmly at the crowd. “I’ve been hasty,” he began. “I have overstepped, and for that, I apologize.”

“You stabbed him in cold blood!” one of the slaves corrected.

Petaerus disagreed. “After a night of heavy fighting, my blood has never run hotter. Yet, I cannot return his health, and since freedom is little reward to a man that must die, I grant freedom to you and any others that wish to stay with him,” he smiled. “With his blood, he has paid your numerous debts. He has bought your freedom!”

A few of the slaves remained hot, but a surprising number—weak and ragged—were cooled by the offer.

“And as we leave, we will distract the waokie from you,” Dolif continued. “And as you leave, you will distract the waokie from us, and we both shall benefit," he added.

Petaerus smiled at his friend. It was a good angle. "Those that stay must have courage!” he continued. “If you are mad at us for what I have done, then stoke your rage and hatred for those beasts. They are murderers! They will kill you and grind your bones for meal!” he sneered. “If you will be free, you must use your fire to forge your own path forward—for it is a frightful jungle out there!” He glanced among the slaves.

The prisoners turned to question and council each other.

“Some of you are not fighters,” he began again. “It is not in you to carve a path through your enemies—but I will not forsake you! If you wish the protection of our arms, you may stay with us! Indeed, any that wish to come with us are granted the full protection of the Empress herself! All they must do is comply with my orders!” he told them. “Come now! Gather 'round if you wish to go with us!" He called and moved further into the prison with his tight knot of guards. "Come, and be saved! Salvation is at hand!"

The interrupter ran to his wounded friend. "Wil!" he said as blood and bile poured from Wil's wound. "Curse that bastard!" he huffed.

Wil stared up at his comforting friend with shock and pain in his tearful eyes. "Oh, Brankellus, my time in this hell is finally at an end! I think you should envy me!"

Other prisoners approached as Brankellus tended Wil. "Why has he done this?" they asked.

"He is stabbed for my insolence," Brankellus sobbed. "It is no fair!"

Lilyanah stepped through the crowd and brushed the complaint aside. "Fairness is for children,” the girl said, wise beyond her years, as she leaned close to examine the wound. "How deep is it?"

"To the hilt," Wil confessed.

Lilyanah attempted to lift his hands.

“No, girl,” Wil resisted her. “This is as far as go.”

“It is low in the gut,” Lilyanah replied. “It may take a day or two before you bleed out. Much can happen in a day or two. Will you not come with us?”

Wil shook his head. “Would you carry me as our enemies press upon you? And as you say, it is low in the gut. Likely, I am already septic. No. You must save yourselves. Get far from camp. Whatever defeats them does not mean to save us."

"If we remain with the Ministrians, we are sure to live," Karen volunteered.

"And what kind of a life is that?" called Chad. "I will be a slave no longer! I will stay and face the dangers of the wild, even if it means my death!"

Others whispered their uncertainty and trepidation as they calculated their chances. Many broke from the group. "We go!" they called and stepped through the hole in the fence to go with the Ministrians. "To live is to live, and we would remain on this earth!" A long train of women, children, and the infirm followed.

Nearly a third of the prisoners remained. Among them was a great lack of weapons. They gathered what they could find—dull knives meant to spread sauces, splinters of wood from the fence, heavy spoons, and the pots they stirred. Several moved further afield to find anything more dangerous.

At noon, a shrill call went out among Ministrians, “FIFTEEN MINUTES TO MUSTER!” They called, to be oft repeated and amended as they prepared to march. “TEN MINUTES TO MUSTER!” up and down the line. “FIVE MINUTES TO MUSTER!”

Petaerus returned to the hole in the fence, and called to the remaining slaves. "It is time!" he roared. "For the glory of the Empire, move out!" Quite pleased to be free of any troublemakers so easily, he sneered at the remaining prisoners—though he refused to look at Wil or Brankellus. Then, the Ministrians stepped from sight as they pressed on the south gate.

Those that remained among the slaves started for the east gate. "Is that it?" Brankellus called to them. “Will we do nothing for our brother?”

Lilyanah shrugged. "If I had grave mushrooms, I should give them to the man," she said. "But I have none of my herbs, just as I have no needle and thread to stitch him—there is nothing I can do—I do not even have a sharp blade to end him quick."

"Non, Lilyanah. I do not want to die like an animal; frightened and begging for a quick end," Wil replied. "The fates have decided how it shall be. I will sit with my torment and die like a man."

“And a good man you are,” Lilyanah stroked his hair. "Come with us," she begged Brankellus. "Wil is done for. There is nothing we can do for him. But you are strong. Will you not help us through the wilds?"

"Go with them," Wil said to Brankellus. "I am dead. Do not add your death to mine."

Brankellus shock his head. “I have died a dozen deaths in this camp. I died the day they took my wife and babe to the west. I died when they cursed my father, and set him out back of the fort, to drift away and die with his withered clubs for hands,” he said with tears in his eyes. “For so long, death has been our best chance of escape, and now that it creeps close, I mean to take it!"

Wil huffed. "Do not throw your life away!" he repromanded.

"I do not intend to. Indeed, it will be just the beginning,” Brankellus locked eyes with his dying friend. “As they march, I will pour my rage and grief into the sky. I will attract our enemies and distract them from our friends,” he said. “Then, they will find me. I will fight them, and I will kill as many as I can. Then, beyond the grave, I will stay in this world," Brankellus said, as he marked his cheek with Wil’s blood. It was sigil for Scarad, the Tallian god of war and vengeance. "In death, I will find your murderer and I will haunt him the rest of his days, I swear it!" he hissed.

"Do not be vengeful!” Wil admonished. “Let Jeiju take your soul! He shall escort you to paradise!"

“No,” Brankellus declined. "I will yet make it to paradise—but first I mean to make a misery of that man!"

“It does not work that way,” Lilyanah said. "You will not come with us? There is nothing we can do to convince you otherwise?"

Brankellus did not look at the girl. "You think I am weak," he accused her.

"Weak? No,” Lilyanah shook her head. “Weary? Defeated? Hopeless? Everything we ever had was taken from us. How can I expect you to be otherwise?" She leaned into Brankellus and kissed his forehead. "Despite our grievances, I have a lust for life! I no longer see our wholesale destruction! I see a new beginning—born of fear and fire, yes—but it is ours, to make of it what we will! There is yet a place for us in this world!"

"There is nothing!" Brankellus cried. "I will have only my revenge!"

Lilyanah ran her hand through the man's hair. “You will not change your mind?”

Brankellus would not look at her as he shook his head.

“So be it,” she turned to go.

Brankellus caught her arm. "Will you seal me to my fate?" He asked. "I cannot do it alone. I do not think the gods favor me so,” he looked up at the young woman. "But you… they favor you. You have proved it many times."

Lilyanah stared at her long-trusted neighbor and realized he was set in his path. Likely, the demon gods of vengeance and hate already meant to honor his oath—humans were valuable avatars—even as a ghost. She frowned as she considered the difficulties he was asking her to bestow. "I shall not like it," she said with a tear in her eye, “…but I will do as you ask.”

With a grim and determined demeanor, Lilyanah dipped a finger in Wil's blood. She drew the glyph of the red moon on the other cheek of Brankellus.

"By Oblarra, I seal you to your intent!” Lilyanah called to the sky. “Dark gods of vengeance and hate, grant our friend the strength he needs to obliterate his enemy, as Oblarra has shattered the old Mother Moon!” She grabbed him by the face and smudged both sigils. “Go, camouflaged from your enemies!“ She licked her bloody palm, then placed it against his forehead. “As the deceitful hunter cloaks herself in shadow, you will be unseen among the living!” she finished in dramatic fashion.

"By the will of the gods," Brankellus nodded.

Wil cried to hear all this. "My friend, what have you done?!" he asked as he squeezed Brankellus’ hand.

"Only the necessary," Brankellus said as he kissed Lilyanah. "Thank you."

"No, friend,” Lilyanah patted his hand as she shook her head. “You have set yourself upon a thankless path," she said, and wrapped him in a hug. "There is nothing before you but misery and horror. So I ask you to remember, when your task is finally done, look to love and go with your ancestors,” she stared into his eyes. “You must remember this, or you will stalk the world unseen and forgotten for as long as the gods demand it,” she claimed. “Look to love, and go when your ancestors call you.”

Lilyanah turned to Wil. “As for you,” she kissed and caressed the dying man. “Go before us, and be with our brothers and sisters. Prepare us a place, and know that one day, we shall all join you."

With that, Lilyanah stood and disappeared among the others that still hoped to escape. "Tonight, we mourn you both," she said as she turned. to the others and walked through the gaping hole in the fence. Many touched and kissed their doomed friends as they passed; some five hundred free slaves.

Wil and Brankellus commiserated and talked of their people, now trampled to dust and scattered to the winds, as they waited for the inevitable ring of conflict. They commiserated until the sharp clang of swords and axes, of metal and stone, finally chimed through the air; punctuated with screams and curses. The Ministrians engaged the waokie once more. Despite the sun, a chill caught in both men.

The battle was joined by the freed slaves, and now the sounds of fighting came from the east as well.

In hopes that he might distract from his friends, Brankellus lifted his head. He howled and shrieked his grief as he thought of his missing family. Wil called and cried with him.

The fighting intensified as people flooded from the east and south gates—then drifted away as the surviving humans ran. Brankellus and Wil carried on with their frightful wailing and gnashing until they could hear the others no more.

Between their cries and curses, Wil and Brankellus heard the low growl and snarl of something angry nearby. They turned to the hole in the fence.

A shadow approached, shorter than a man, stocky and well muscled. Similar black figures shifted about behind it; dark and menacing forms all the same. There were a dozen. Then there were twenty. Then there were too many to count. Brankellus hissed as the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The beasts were too short to be men—and far too hairy. They gnashed their teeth and threw curses as they approached.

"Ah," Brankellus said as he finally realized what he faced. "A war of bugbear," he said and his heart sank. He crouched and faced the approaching menace. They had spears, knives, mallets, axes, and swords; made of edged stone, or rusty and pitted metal. Brankellus began to pant to flex as he prepared to fight. He summoned his courage and hope to leave this life as a warrior. To do so was in the spirit of Scarad. To do so was in the spirit of Oblarra. He felt such action would help him haunt the blasted guard, Petaerus.

The bugbear hissed and snarled as the tall man stood his ground.

"Oh Brankellus..." Wil whispered.

Brankellus roared as he charged at the gathered bugbear. The bugbear leveled their weapons as the wild man rushed forward. He tried to brush aside the nearest spear—but the weapon twisted and slashed his shoulder. He howled as pain bit through him.

Brankellus barreled onward. He took hold of the spear and yanked it from its owner. Pulled off balance, the bugbear fell forward. Brankellus kicked the beast, and it yelped as it fell back.

The other bugbear swarmed him. They cut him and smashed him with their various weapons from all angles. Brankellus howled and roared. He had nothing left to give, and finally fell under the bugger onslaught. His life rushed from him, and still the bugbear battered his corpse. They continued to punish him until he was nothing more than a heap of broken bone and bruised meat in a growing pool of blood.

"Oh Brankellus!" Wil cried under his breath. Tears streamed from his eyes. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his stomach was too much. He almost blacked out from the effort and was forced to lie back in the dirt.

A number of bugbear approached Wil. Since the man was already down, they gathered about him in a slow circle.

"Kill me," Will glared at the beasts. "Release me, you devils," he snarled as they got closer.

But they did not. Although the bugbear all had weapons, none of them attacked. Instead, one of the creatures sat next to the old man and grinned at him with its snaggled yellow teeth. Ol’ SnaggleTeeth pried Wil’s hands from his wound as the other bugbear moved to restrain the injured man. He poked at the stab wound as the others nodded and encouraged his indelicate fingers.

Wil screamed as pain raged through him. He squirmed and tried to free himself—but there were too many hands to hold him down. "Kill me!" he yelled at the beasts. "Kill me! Kill me!" he demanded. He grabbed one of the beasts by its fur and yanked with all his might.

The beast yelped in pain and tried to twist away—then bit the old man’s arm, until Wil finally let him go.

Will screamed—then bit a beast as it parked a foot too close to his face.

Fed up with his antics, SnaggleTeeth raised his knife and bashed Wil in the face with the blunt end of the handle.

Wil blacked out.

SnaggleTeeth reached into his satchel and removed a small pouch. He opened the pouch and pulled a bit of black filth from it. The other bugbear smiled, nodded, and patted each other on the back. SnaggleTeeth speared a bit of the filth with his finger, then smeared it in Wil's wound, mashing it deep into the cut.

Wil woke and screamed from a surge of pain—only to black out again.

When Wil woke once more, his arms and legs were lashed to a post from the broken fence. The bugbear half carried and half dragged him from the Invader's Fort. The pain of being jostled about was too much. Wil was in and out of consciousness as they bumped and bruised him against seemingly every obstacle.

Fever overcame him.

The waking world looked increasingly like the nightmares Wil suffered on the other side.

Bugbear danced and cheered as the Camp and Fort burned for a second night. The majority of bugbear marched south, after the Ministrians, but a good number, several hundred—or possibly a thousand, remained and tended the spoils they’d already won. For them, the war ended when the Camp and Fort fell.

There were dozens of prisoners; all injured, tied, and poisoned. Some were dead, their bones stripped of their meat, and made into daggers or meal. Most were still in the process of dying, much like Wil.

"Kill me," Will begged his captors. "Kill me," he pleaded whenever a beast ventured near. They ignored him with contempt.

Along with the increasing pain in his stomach, there was pain in Wil’s hands and feet from the lashing. His neck hurt as his head hung at an awkward angle. Indeed, there was no part of the man that did not hurt—only some places that hurt more. There was only torment for the man as he continued to wash between the suffering of the real world and the nightmares of his tortured sleep.

A bugbear poked Wil to see if he were dead. As he woke, he snapped at the nearby beast with all the strength and rage he could muster. "Kill me!" He roared at the creature. "Kill me! Kill me! KILL ME!"

Several of the bugbear turned on him. They mocked and taunted him as he continued to scream and struggle in his weak manner. They poked at the spreading rot. They danced and chortled to hear his pain—and this continued until the pain of Wil’s convulsions caused him to black out yet again.

Wil woke again and again. He screamed as he remembered his pain—and then he did not have the strength to scream anymore. He whimpered and sobbed instead. Tears rolled from his eyes. He cried and cried until he had no water left to give.

A day passed in this painful manner, and a night with it.

Another day began as Wil drifted in and out of consciousness. He could tell he was short for this world, and he begged the gods to take him. There was a dull throbbing pain that ran through his body—though it was now muted. More than anything, Wil was simply tired. He could not lift his head. He could barely open his eyes.

As he peered out on an overly bright world, Wil could see the form of Brankellus, strong and imposing, as the spirit of his dead friend stood to one side. With a grunt, Wil pried his dry lips apart. "I come to you," he smiled. "I join you in the realm of the dead!"

Wil survived the better part of two days as the rot spread and formed a rich marbling through his meat. After he expired, the buggers cut the rot-marbled corpse into thin strips, salted it, and hung it to dry in an orderly fashion—but as they divvied up the organs, a scuffle erupted. There were several cuts, bruises, bites, and a fair amount of hair pulled during the fracas. Wil’s intestines were lost in the fight. Uncoiling in the dirt; they were trounced, ripped, and exploded as the squabble raged.

Brankellus witnessed his friend’s ignominious end and a cold hatred fueled his heart. He focused on Petaerus once more. A tug developed in his gut and pulled him to the south. An inner knowing told him this sense would lead him to his quarry.

“Brankellus, come with me.”

Brankellus turned to see the ghost of Wil. His friend stretched out a hand as his spirit slowly lifted into the air. “This is the path forward. All that remains for you here is to wander in the dark,” Wil smiled. “Come with me.”

But a rage boiled in Brankellus and he could not let it go. He could not forget his other friends and family—so he stepped back into the cold night and allowed his hatred and grievances to fuel him on his journey south, in hopes of finding a way to torment the living.