Bound

Polished. Shifted the dynamics between Dolif and Petaerus. Continued the erasure of Jetherson. Shifted Lilyanah’s spell so she adds a bit for herself — 1h24m06s — 2023/02/08

The sun rose over the horizon and set its unerring gaze upon the remains of Camp Calderhal. After nine hours of conflict and fire, the walled fort was a shadow of its former self, breached in a dozen places. Shops, homes—even several of the stone structures that housed the governing Degorouth and their Ministrian allies—now lay in smoldering ruins. The Great Stone Tower served as the court of several waokie chiefs that did not mind the wobble of the heavily damaged structure.

The condition of the Invader’s Fort was not quite so dire. She was breached in several places, including the tunnel—which was quickly improved and extended by the burrowing bugbear—but most of the Fort was held by the Ministrians, of which there were perhaps a couple thousand, and about as many more slaves. Throughout the long night, wave after wave of waokie crashed upon the Camp, and then the Fort, in an endless stream. Between the small walled camp, and the much larger fort, there were two full legions and a large civilian population numbering altogether some ten thousand. Nobody could the bugbear. There were dead bugbear everywhere—but despite the incredible losses, there were always more—and filled with a bloodlust.

The sun rose. The heat of the day began.

Feeling the weight of their pillage and having satiated their bloodlust, the waokie abandoned their press and retreated from the Invader’s Fort to the comfort and smolder of Camp Calderhal and the surrounding woods. Those humans that remained in the Invader’s Fort were safe for a time, likely until nightfall, when they figured the war of waokie would bare down upon them once again.

Bloody and haggard from a long night of fighting, Petaerus and Dolif stood on the remains of a tower and conferred as they gazed over the haggard and demoralized survivors. There was general disorder among many of the remaining guards, and such a fear among the civilians that panic often spilled over, creating 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.

Worn and bloodied, Petaerus shook his head as he looked out over the shuffling crowd. “What would you say? Eight, maybe nine hundred of us left in fighting form?”

Weary, Dolif replied with a smile. “It won’t matter if the happen to leave us alone.”

Petaerus shook his head as he stared over the crowd. “Listen to that racket! Those beasts are not leaving us here. There barely out of range, and just about always out of sight. Several squads watch the entrance to the tunnel, and I hear we constantly see them peeking. We can’t hope they will leave us alone. No. If we wish to survive, I think we shall have to run south. We shall have to drive a wedge through the waokie, break their line, and make for Rynth Falls.”

“Can’t we just stay here?” Dolif asked. “Fix the walls a bit? Stand the high ground?”

“Wait them out?” Petaerus shook his head. “You’d be surrounded with no hope of quarter. How long until reinforcements arrived, or the waokie simply bugger off?! The next caravan is two days out!” He sneered. “Sounds like a good way to get gored if you ask me. We are reduced to maybe a fifth?! In one night of fighting?! And only the coming of the sun has given us reprieve?!”

“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! No. Our only hope is to punch a hole through their siege and make a run for it.”

“I feel like we’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” Dolif sighed. “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 with a growing grin.

“Neither do you,” Dolif pointed. “What? Are you hearing rumors?”

Petaerus nodded. “Beautiful town—stone walls thrice the height of a man.”

“Still needs bodies,” Dolif shrugged.

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

“Bouge?” Dolif snorted. “Better have twice as many.”

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

Dolif turned to his friend with a skeptical frown, “Ten legions?!”

With a massive grin on his face, Petaerus nodded. “Altogether, I’d guess there’s nearly thirty thousand fighting men.”

“With ten legions of our own, I’d care nothing about the others,” Dolif replied. The light of hope touched his eyes as he stared at his friend. “Why are there ten legions in Rynth Falls?!”

Petaerus ignored the question 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 Shaufenauper is the highest rank I’ve seen,” Dolif answered.

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

“I already have,” Dolif noted. “After him, I’ve seen Copals Wilkus, Dreanna… Oh, and I also saw Drastorig, among the men guarding the tunnel.”

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

“Don’t know of any other,” Dolif nodded and pointed to the rather large and intimidating figure. “Just came in with the latest caravan, 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 ten legions and Drastarig’s company of raving acolytes making their way south...”

“Do you know him?” Petaerus began with a reverence. “Is he as dangerous as they say?”

“I don’t know him well, though I had the dubious pleasure of spending a month with him and his men in Borzia,” Dolif shrugged. “He’s dangerous—and not all there. He has a tendency to eat whatever he kills, or should I say, whomever.”

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

Dolif shook his head. “Him and his men will be smoothing the chinks from their knives and drinking their fill before they consider anything else. If I know him at all, he won’t be much interested in politicking. Still, we can use him to rally the others—so long as our plan means he gets to kill with abandon.”

“Well, Dreanna is feckless, and Wilkus is a witless boob,” Petaerus shook his head. “Figures that most of the useless weight is at the top. Do you think we could convince that imbecile Wilkus of our glorious plan, then buffalo Dreanna? If we did, would Drastorig listen?”

Dolif shook his head. “Drastorig will be interested in Drastorig, so we can approach him directly—but it’ll have to be for his own good.”

“What’s better than living?” Petaerus replied.

“Money,” Dolif replied with a smile. “Slaves,” he added.

“Well, there’s some fire and iron among these lower men,” Petaerus noted. “We might yet live till tomorrow.”

Dolif nodded. “If we can get Drastarig to back us, we can easily buffalo those others. We’ll make a coalition yet! Come!” he said as he proceeded to climb down from the tower.

Having previous experience with Drastorig, Dolif led their conversation. Then, having Drastorig’s blessing, Petaerus and Dolif circulated among the survivors and gathered their confederates. Through reasoning, negotiation, and a couple well timed threats; Petaerus and Dolif managed to impose their plan upon the remaining shock troops.

The 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 remaining guard would clear and hold a path while the civilians and slaves pressed south with all possible haste. Finally, the guards would fight a delaying action until they reached the safety of Rynth Falls—or until they were overcome trying—preferably the former. If they survived, and they considered it a rather grand ‘if’—the military men would have salvage rights upon the slaves.

“There’s a mess of civilians that want to stay,” Dolif noted. “Should we rough ‘em up?”

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

“And if they refuse?”

Petaerus snorted. “Maybe 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. “Shall we check on the slaves?”

No fighting occurred anywhere near the slave pens, so Petaerus was surprised to find a dead guard and a massive hole in the fence as he approached the pens. "Who is this?!" He raged and noted the guard was missing his weapon. He rolled the dead man on his back, that he might see his face.

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

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

Petaerus almost felt bad. After all, he gave orders for the two men 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 high guard with rage. He jumped through the hole and gave chase.

The slaves 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, and 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 replied, wide eyed, and pleading.

Petaerus struck the old man with the back of his hand.

"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! True! By Jeiju, I swear it!"

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

"By Naharahn..." 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. “What foreigners?!”

“It was a Saot—a true Saot—and a man as black as night. They had a Trohl with ‘em as a guide,” 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.

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

"Yet, despite protocols, you came out," Petaerus reprimanded.

"Will we be forced to cower even as our masters are killed?!” the prisoner cried.

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 with his hands open and to his sides. He knew he’d overstepped. His face was contrite.

Petaerus sneered as a surge of violent indignation overcame him. He’d seen such a large number of his brothers fall and die only hours before and his anger was quick to rise. “You’re all 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 the remaining 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,” he whispered.

“Sir...” Dolif tapped his friend’s shoulder. He wore a look of worry and trepidation as he stared at the milling slaves. “We might want to 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 right here...”

There was a frantic energy about the slaves. They were scared, despondent, resentful—likely to act in a rash manner if cornered any further. Petaerus glanced at his own twenty guards and frowned as he realized he was heavily outnumbered.

Still, if they should attack, his men would down a terrible number before they were overcome—and just as likely, they’d only panic and run.

But the high guard wasn’t really interested in the wholesale slaughter of the slaves. There’d be no reward for that. Instead, he sheathed his knife. 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 shook his head as he 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 the freedom of any that wish it!”

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

‘What are you doing?” Dolif whispered. “You can’t free the slaves! What about salvage?!”

“Yes! But let us get rid of any troublemakers,” Petaerus offered. He turned back to the slaves and began to outline a plan. “As we leave, we will distract the waokie from you,” he told them. “And as you leave, you will distract the waokie from us. In that way, more of us shall live. But those of you that would be free must have courage! If you are mad at me for what I have done, then I say stoke your rage and hatred! But do not aim it at me! Aim it at those beasts instead! They will not treat with you! They are savage murderers! They will kill you and grind your bones for meal! 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 glared at the slaves and dared them to meet his stare.

The prisoners turned to question and council each other.

Dolif nodded. “And now the offer,” he grinned.

Petaerus continued to butter up the slaves. “Most of you are not fighters. It is not in you to carve a path through your enemies—but I will not forsake you! If you wish the protection of the Empire, you may stay with us! Indeed, any that wish to come with us are granted the full protection of the army! 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! Blessed Ooroiyuo wishes to save you! Salvation is at hand!” He called among the rest.

Petaerus stepped away from his victim and walked among the others. The interrupter ran to his wounded friend. "Wil!" he said as blood and bile poured from Wil's wound. "Curse that bastard!" the interrupter huffed as he stared after Petaerus.

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 young lady said. "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 I 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 note, it is low in the gut. Likely, it was a dirty knife and 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," Karin volunteered.

"And what kind of a life is that?" Shad replied. "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 and followed Karin. "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.

Almost 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 broken fence, heavy spoons and the pots they stirred. Several moved further afield to find anything more dangerous, but few had any luck.

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

Petaerus returned to the hole in the fence, and called to the remaining slaves. "It is time!" he roared. "To all those that wish to live, and for the glory of the Empire, move out!" He sneered at the remaining prisoners—quite pleased to be free of any troublemakers. 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, so 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 shook 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 succumb to the wilds, with withered clubs for hands,” he confessed 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 reprimanded.

“I do not intend to. Indeed, it is just the beginning!” Brankellus said as he locked eyes with his dying friend. “Instead, I will pour my rage and grief into the sky. I will attract our enemies and distract them from our friends,” he said. “Then, when they find me, I will fight them, and I will kill as many as I can!”

“They will kill you,” Wil replied. “Surely, they will kill you!”

“Yes, and beyond the grave, I will stay in this world,” Brankellus continued, as he marked his cheek with Wil’s blood. He drew the 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 interjected. “Will you not come with us? There is nothing we can do to convince you?”

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

"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 only have my revenge!”

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

Brankellus shook his head and would not look at her.

“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 ghosts. 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. She licked her bloody palm, then placed it against his forehead, thus adding her own spell to his. “As the deceitful hunter cloaks herself in shadow, you will be unseen among the living!” she finished in dramatic fashion.

Nobody wanted to look anyone else in the eye, after what the young girl did.

Lilyanah grabbed Brankellus by the cheeks and bored her eyes into his. “As a ghost, there will be little strength for you. If you wish to damn your enemy, you will have to be cunning and resourceful.”

“By the will of the gods,” Brankellus nodded. “I will end him early.”

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 shook her head and patted his hand. “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—and the gods do love their playthings,” she claimed. “Look to love, and go when your ancestors call you,” she repeated.
Lilyanah turned to Wil.

“As for you,” she kissed and caressed the dying man, Wil. “Go before us, and be with our brothers and sisters once more. 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 they turned to the hole in the fence. Many touched and kissed their doomed friends as they passed; several hundred free slaves in all.

Wil and Brankellus commiserated and talked of their people—now trampled to dust and scattered to the winds—as they waited for the inevitable cries and clatter of conflict. They talked 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, and despite the high sun, a chill caught in both men.

Brankellus figured that his friends would have made it to the wall by now. He began to wail and weep, howling and shrieking at the the wind, in hopes that he might distract any remaining enemies. Having suffered for so long, Wil called and cried with him.

The fighting intensified as main column of survivors flooded from the south gate, then drifted away, as the surviving humans ran—and the waokie ran after them. Brankellus and Wil carried on with their frightful wailing and gnashing until they could hear the others no more.

For several minutes, Brankellus wondered what he would do if none of their enemies remained. After that, it wasn’t long before Wil and Brankellus heard the low growl and snarl of something angry approaching. They turned to the hole in the fence. Shadows shifted about, stocky and well muscled, dark and menacing forms all the same. 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. There were half a dozen, then several dozen, then far too many to bother with counting.

“Ah,” Brankellus said as he finally realized what he faced. “A war of bugbear…” He crouched and stared at the approaching menace. They had spears, knives, mallets, axes, and swords—some newly acquired, the rest made of edged stone, or rusty and pitted metal from battles long ago. Brankellus began to pant and 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 that 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 them. He tried to brush aside the nearest spear—but the weapon twisted and slashed his shoulder. He howled as pain bit through him.

Despite his injury, Brankellus bowled over the owner of the spear and tumbled on top of him.

The other bugbear swarmed him. They cut him and smashed him with their various weapons from all angles, unconcerned that they battered one of their own. 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 smashed at 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, as 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!”

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.

The bugbear pried Wil’s hands from his wound so Ol’ Snaggleteeth could poke at the injury. 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 snarled. 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 let go.

Will screamed—then, inspired by the beast, he bit an arm that stretched 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.

Ol’ 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 was too much. Wil was in and out of consciousness as they bumped and bruised him against seemingly every obstacle.

A fever started. The waking world looked increasingly like the nightmares. Wil also 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, possibly a thousand—remained and tended the spoils they’d already won. For them, the war ended when the Camp and Fort fell. They were the senior bugbear. The alphas and close associates.

There were dozens of other 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. He woke, and 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. They danced and chortled to hear his torment. This continued until the pain of Wil’s convulsions caused him to black out yet again.

Wil woke again and again as the hours slowly ticked by. 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. 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—and when he did, he could see the lines of dark rot creeping upon his arms and hands.

Wil could also 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 black heart. He focused on Petaerus once more, as 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 the 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. “Forget your hate. Come with me.”

But a rage still 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 his living enemy.

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