Unbound

Polished — 11m46s — 2023/11/11

Polished — 12m49s — 2023/12/29

After several weeks of crisscrossing back and forth across the central plain of the Noeth, Brankellus doubted he'd ever catch Petaerus. There were signs of his quarry everywhere; burned out villages, the mournful wailing of desperate survivors, and always a couple more ghosts to join his entourage—but the marauder himself was never at hand. Brankellus began to wonder if he would ever catch the man. Would the murderer ever pay for his crimes?

Although Brankellus could not catch Petaerus, he 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 still be standing. 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…

…and 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. Many of the ghosts did the same—or tried to hurt the other marauders—all to no avail.

Or perhaps it did have an effect? 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 slow shift in the sky as the sun was getting ready to rise. Then Petaerus roused his men and the camp prepared to depart—as the ghosts cried and screamed their hate for these men—all to no effect. Like so many times before, Petaerus and his marauders were on their way to the next village; to murder, rape, and pillage, if the village wasn’t well defended, if they were not swollen with Yurand’s cavalry.

Brankellus ignored the wider war, though Petaerus could not. For nearly a month, Petaerus and his marauders played cat and mouse with the riders from High Plains. For his part, Gliedian had taken the bulk of his men and encircled High Plains. They laid siege to the fortified town, which effectively cut off any of the Count’s troops that were outside the high-walled town. Catapults and siege towers were built as the attack was prepared—but until the order was given, there was little to do but wait. Most of the fighting took place in the county around High Plains, as villages loyal to Yurand were pillaged and sacked.

The inhabitants of these villages weren’t altogether alone. Yurand’s cavalry was outside the city, and had been since word of Solveny’s demise had reached the count. Despite their losses, these units harassed and vexed the invader’s army with determination and tenacity, taking refuge to the east and south, while Gliedian’s marauders lashed out at the increasingly distant villages.

Having nothing else to do but trail after his quarry, Brankellus stepped through a village early in the morning. He expected he would simply step out the far side and continue after Petaerus, when all at once he noticed dust rising off the road. Riders, a great number, were heading this way, and at a gallop. Brankellus feared what was about to happen to the town, but was positively electric with anticipation. For once, his prey was coming to him!

A compliment of marauders charged from the trees and swarmed toward the hovels and cottages of the simple folk. The horsemen reached the first of the homes and havoc ensued—but it was not the unsuspecting slaughter Brankellus thought it would be. Cavalry from High Plains had slipped into the sleepy village the night before. Armed and dangerous, they poured out of the small buildings, often atop their mounts, as they wore the orange and gray of High Plains.

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—though it was quite to his liking. Perhaps he should finally see Petaerus die as the marauders turned and attempted to flee—especially since there were more men hiding in the fields!

As the marauders turned, a large band of infantry rose from hide-outs they’d dug in the fields and cut off the marauders retreat. The slaughter continued—though Petaerus, Dolif, and some of the others still managed to make the edge of the trees.

The ambush was a thorough victory for the locals and nearly destroyed this band of marauders—though there were many others that continued to sack and pillage the countryside. A mere handful of the attackers escaped the slaughter—Petaerus among them—though he suffered several wounds.

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 these marauders and followed them into the woods. They entered a wild area near the border of Gaurring. Although they hunted and ferreted out several survivors (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. His horse was dead and long abandoned. Injured, and fearing the men from High Plains, Petaerus made his way deep into the wild. Brankellus and the other spirits soon found him, 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 injured enemy. He stuck his fingers in the man's wounds and begged them to spoil. For a night and a 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 at the edge of the lake, and slowly regained his strength. After a day of hiding and conserving his energy, Petaerus set several traps, put lines in the lake, and foraged fruits and vegetables. By lunch, he had a trout and enough forage for a decent meal.

Brankellus was astounded by the man's resourcefulness, and as the first few days came to an end, 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 baited 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 all but guarantee his recovery!

Brankellus screamed and yelled at the stupid animal. Would it really die for the small boon of a couple wild apples?! He charged forward as he raged—then, as he struck the beast—a shiver of fear shot through the creature. It pulled away from the ghost and backed from the fruit that laid in the trap. Thoroughly 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. Brankellus had spooked the deer! It was not caught, and now Petaerus could not eat it! Many of them understood what had happened and knew the significance, and so they spread the discovery to the others.

Smiles lit among the host of dead as they spread about, searching for traps and snares in the woods, while others stepped into the lake and followed the lines set in the water, then proceeded to spook any fish that approached the wormed 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. Suddenly, Petaerus was unable to catch anything—as the ghosts spooked away any game that ventured near.

Despite his lack of food, the soldier's wounds healed clean—all but the deep cut on his leg. 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 two days were now failing him! Initially, he was sure there was plenty to catch and 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. 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 him, 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 snares, 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 now the hook was forever lost. Several of the lines were tangled and useless. Soon, there was little need for the ghosts to sabotage him at all. In his weak and hazy condition, Petaerus had unwittingly sabotaged himself.

Now that most of the traps and lines were ruined, 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—before collapsing in the grass and moaning over his condition. 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—all of which 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? He could not fathom it. Among a few others, Brankellus relished the pain and suffering of his quarry. Though he could not remember why, he felt he was justified as he watched Petaerus squirm and thrash about. He stayed 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 and beg of the twin gods of Minist. 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 lost.

Finally, the death rattle sounded, and the spirit of Petaerus lifted out of his corpse. 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 forgot exactly why. Whatever it was, Petaerus had the look of it. He hissed and cursed at the ghosts all around him, then turned and slumped away into the dark woods. He snorted and bellowed and trudged away on heavy feet—looking for something, looking for the gods only know.

Brankellus watched after the angry ghost, but since the man was dead, there was nothing to pull him, to make him follow. He let him go. Indeed, he wondered if Petaerus remembered why they were angry with each other in the first place. For a time, he thought to follow the ghost and to ask the reason. For a time, he thought to follow the ghost and torment him a bit more—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 all together. 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. Indeed, 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 for… searching for… what was he searching for?

Brankellus turned to the east and stared at the Red Moon as it crested the horizon. Oblarra stared back at the ghost and whispered, “there are more that require your wrath—so many more,” it spoke. “Keep hunting,” it told him, then shared visions of other men that deserved his vexing.

Brankellus turned from the red god as a renewed sense of vengeance surged through his heart. He stalked north, toward High Plains, as the dark god Oblarra laughed and lapped at his misery.

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