Unbound

Polished — 47m41s — 2022/09/01

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.

An ever growing host of dead followed after Brankellus. Each day there were two or three more ghosts that followed after him with heavy hearts and weary steps. They may try to speak with him, but whatever their questions or statements, he could not understand their Saotren tongue. Whenever they approached him, he simply made the Trohl signs of mourning and continued on his way.

A few talked to him in his native tongue, though he often lost interest in their words. What did he care for the world of the living? Occasionally they would ask him where he was taking them, and he’d tell them he followed the scent of the man that killed his friend, one of the soldiers that was causing havoc across the plains. Some of them could not abide this, and abandoned him, which was fine. He had not asked them to follow. Most stayed with him, which was also fine. He still did not know what he might do, even if he should find Petaerus.

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 the second pass. But Petaerus never held still for long, and his horse was far too fast for the ghost. The spirit was beginning to think he’d never catch the soldier—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. Several of the ghosts that gathered around him all did the same, or tried to hurt the other soldiers—to no avail.

In his sleep, Petaerus began to toss and fidget, 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 on their way to the next village, to murder, rape, and pillage.

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—though several large troops were dispatched from High Plains and did what they could. 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 from High Plains had slipped into the sleepy village the night before. Armed and dangerous, they poured out of the small buildings wearing the orange and gray. Expecting only a token of resistance, the marauders were surprised when fighting men continued to pour from the tiny huts. Many of the attackers were cut down before the mixed force of marauders realized their mistake!

The ambush was done in such a clandestine manner that even Brankellus was caught by surprise. He thought he should see Petaerus die as the marauders turned and attempted to flee—especially when he realized that there were more men hiding in the fields! As the marauders turned, a large band of infantry rose from buried hide-outs and cut off the horsemen’s retreat. 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 nearly destroyed this band marauders—though there were many others that continued to sack and pillage as they drifted south. A mere handful of the attackers escaped the slaughter, Petaerus among them, though he suffered several injuries.

Brankellus trudged onward, but he and his entourage of spirits were not the only ones in pursuit. The men from High Plains sought to kill every last one of the marauders and followed them into the woods, a wild area very near the border of Gaurring. Although they hunted and ferreted out several surivivors (some that they took as prisoners), Petaerus escaped, undetected. But Brankellus could not be deceived. He knew without any sign on the earth that Petaerus had slipped away from his living pursuers.

Injured, and still fearing the men from High Plains, Petaerus made his way deep into wilderness. Brankellus and the other spirits soon found him in the wilds, hiding in a hollow near the edge of a lake. He was wounded on his side, his shoulder, and also his leg. He had bandaged himself, and none of the injuries seemed 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 the invisible chill that hung over him. Brankellus raged and called down the fury of the gods as Petaerus rested and slowly regained his strength at the edge of the lake.

After a day of hiding and conserving his strength, Petaerus set several traps, put lines in the lake, and foraged fruits and vegetables he knew he could eat. By lunch, he had a trout and enough fruits and vegetables for a decent meal. Brankellus was astounded by the man's resourcefulness, and as the first days passed, he despaired to know the soldier 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 would be quite a boon for the wounded trooper if the deer should step into the snare. Indeed, such a bounty would certainly guarantee his recovery…

Brankellus screamed and yelled at the stupid animal. He charged forward as he raged at the beast—then, as he struck the beast—a shiver of fear shot through the creature. It pulled away from the ghost and backed from the trap. Spooked, the deer turned and bolted in the other direction.

Brankellus stared after the animal 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.

Petaerus was still quite weak, and the few fruits and vegetables he could forage was not enough to carry him through his plight. He caught one more fish before the lines dried up, and despite seeing several animals in the woods, none of his traps were successful.

For days, the ghosts spooked away any game. Petaerus was unable to catch anything. Despite his lack of food, the man's wounds healed clean—all but the deep cut on his leg, which hampered him. With nothing but water and a few leaves and berries for succor, the captain's strength ebbed, then dwindled. He grew weak. In his weakened state, infection appeared about his persisting wound. Petaerus became delirious and began to panic. He could not understand why his fishing lines that worked so well the first day 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 men of High Plains didn’t catch him. But now, nothing bit, nothing was caught in his ingenious snares. Now, the woods were quiet, as if all the game had 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 the squirrels and even chased the 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 of the lines were tangled and useless. Soon, there was little 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 copal 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. Some looked up into the starry sky and begged their gods to rescue them. Indeed, some were 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, and so he stayed 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 simply 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 figured the soldier must have done something awful to justify such a troubled end—but the specifics were all 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 all 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 even lift his eyes to the 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. Indeed, now that he was dead, 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 Brankellus still knew what he was doing among the living—but that time had passed. Now there was nothing, and the spirit of Brankellus separated from the others and wandered into the wilds searching after…. searching after.. what was he searching after?

Brankellus turned to the east and stared at the Red Moon as it crested the horizon. Oblarra stared back and whispered, “keep hunting.” The ghost turned from the god, and with a renewed sense of vengeance once more surging through his heart, Brankellus stalked southward, searching for any that deserved his wrath.

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