Bound

Polished — 47m30s — 2023/12/09

The sun rose over the horizon and set its unerring gaze upon the remains of Camp Calderhal. After nine hours of conflict and fire, and barriers breached in a dozen different places, the walled camp was a shadow of its former self. The flimsy structures that housed the rabble—made mostly of fabrics and wood—were razed to the ground. Indeed, several of the stone structures that belonged to the governing Degorouth and their Ministrian allies now lay in smoldering ruins. Even the Great Stone Tower itself suffered severe damage during the conflict—and now it housed the coterie of several waokie chiefs, none of which seemed to mind the wobble.

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 still held by the Ministrians, of which there were perhaps a couple thousand left, and about as many more slaves. Before the attack, there were two full legions and a large civilian population numbering altogether some ten thousand between the smaller walled camp of pretend defenders and the much larger fort full of supposed aggressors. Throughout the long night, the humans suffered wave after wave of assault, as the waokie crashed upon the Camp—and then the Fort—in a seemingly endless stream. Less than half the humans were left.

Nobody could number the waokie. Their dead littered the battlefield—but despite the incredible losses, there were always more, filled with a bloodlust. As the battle raged, the sun rose, and the heat of the day began. Feeling the weight of their pillage and having satiated some part of their frenzy, 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 watch 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? Maybe a thousand of us left in fighting form?”

Dolif shook his head. “Our only hope is that enough of those beasts are satiated with the plunder they’ve already won.”

“I cannot believe that,” Petaerus argued. “Listen to that racket! They don’t care that we see them, and they’re barely out of range! Non! I can assure you that once night returns, and those beasts have the advantage of the dark, there will be no quarter for us!” he concluded.

“We are doomed,” the old veteran complained.

“Perhaps not,” Petaerus began. “I think we can make a run for it. We are faster than the beasts, even on foot. If we drive a wedge and break their line, I think we can fight a stalling action, so that some of us—maybe even a lot of us—can outrun them,” he speculated.

“A running fight,” Dolif considered. “And where are we running to?”

“Rynth Falls.”

“Rynth Falls? Isn’t that a good day away?”

“Eight hours at a leisurely pace,” Petaerus replied. “With waokie on our heels, we’ll make it faster than that.”

“If we should make it at all—but I should doubt eight hours. Fighting takes more time, not less,” Dolif stated. “Not that it matters. Orders are to prepare for more fighting, here and now.”

“It is folly!” Petaerus waved his hand at the thick smoke wafting about the air. “The fort is breached, my friend. We will not keep them from returning, and when they do?” he shrugged. “The only reason we aren’t dead already is because those dirty waokie were tripping over themselves to get at us!”

“I agree,” Dolif shuddered. “I don’t think we live if they take another run at us. But does that justify a hopeless forced march just to die in some remote mountain village?”

“Ahh, but you just say that because you’ve never been to this remote mountain village,” Petaerus grinned.

“I was told it was small,” Dolif frowned. “Would they have enough bodies to defend us, or do we have to continue the fight once we get there?”

“It used to be small,” Petaerus agreed. “But now there’s the Degorouth and the Bouge turncoats to consider.”

“Better have twice as many,” Dolif hanged his head.

Petaerus continued to grin. “There are shocktroops in Rynth Falls. Lots and lots of shocktroops.”

Dolif looked up at his friend. “And where did all these troops come from?!”

Petaerus shrugged. “We get a caravan just about every week, and several hundred more men than we need—and they aren’t staying at the fort, friend. All these soldiers that have come through these last several months—where do you think they’ve gone?”

Dolif sat up. “Do they not return to Wibbeley?”

“Maybe half,” Petaerus shrugged. “Most go on to Rynth Falls.”

“So how many are in Rynth Falls?”

“Maybe ten legions,” Petaerus guessed.

Dolif’s eyes got big. He stood and leaned out toward the forest. “Hear that, you blasted vermin!” He bellowed. “How would you like to face ten of the bitch’s legions?!”

Petaerus cheered him on.

“Here’s what we should do: we prepare the people, then pour out the south gate for Rynth Falls—” Dolif began.

“That’s just what I said,” Petaerus complained.

“Patience,” the wily old veteran raised a hand. “I’m making your plan better,” he promised. “So once we punch a hole through the waokie, we send word to Rynth Falls, and if we’re lucky, they send a few thousand men north to greet us on the road!”

“That is better!” Petaerus beamed.

“Yeah, but it doesn’t answer one question,” Dolif paused.

“What’s that?” Petaerus prompted.

“Why are their 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, and could see no obvious answer. He changed the subject back to their imminent escape. “So who do we convince to get us marching?”

“High Commander Hizenwaller,” Dolif said.

“No, he died in the fighting last night,” Petaerus said.

“It’d have to be Grandus Shaufenauper,” Dolif shook his head, disgusted.

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

“I already have,” Dolif noted.

“Who else might we appeal to?” Petaerus looked into the fort and glanced about the people he could see. “Who among the officers might help us persuade the Grandus?”

“There’re Copals Wilkus and Dreanna…” Dolif shrugged as he assumed his old friend would pan their mention.

Petaerus shook and huffed with aversion.

“Yeah, Wilkus is feckless, and Dreanna is a witless boob,” Dolif complained. “We can forget about them too.”

“Perhaps we are doomed,” Petaerus sighed. “Perhaps we must consider desertion,” he whispered.

“Maybe not,” Dolif raised a finger. “Two days ago I saw another officer about the camp—one that carries far greater weight than his mere rank suggests,” Dolif began. “Do you know Copal Drastorig?”

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

“Don’t know of any other,” Dolif nodded. “He just came in with the latest caravan, says he’s on his way to Rynth Falls, of all places…” he 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...”

“That’s a question for later,” Petaerus interrupted. “Do you know him?!” he asked with reverence. “Is he as dangerous as they say?!”

Dolif nodded. “I had the dubious pleasure of spending a month with him and his men in Borzia about a dozen years back.”

“The last offense of the Tyriand War?!” Petaerus blinked at his friend.

“Hard times,” Dolif shuddered. “Yeah, he’s as dangerous as they say—and not all there. He has a gruesome tendency of eating the men he kills.”

“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 shrugged. “Him and his men will be smoothing the chinks from their knives, drinking their fill, and resting up for the coming fight. Him and his men are known for their savagery, not cunning. They’re unlikely to consider anything else besides a priestess or two—but…” he grinned. “He does like to embarrass those that rank above him, and he should like our plan as long as he and his men get to kill with abandon.”

“We’ll need him to be zealous of our plan if we hope to buffalo the others,” Petaerus noted.

“Then we need to sweeten the pot,” Dolif stated.

Petaerus considered his words, then grinned as an idea came to him. “What’s better than living?”

“Drink… Women…Slaves,” Dolif replied with a shrug. “Above all, money, since it can buy any of these others.”

“Yes! Money!” Petaerus smiled as he set about revealing the next twist to their plan. “So what of this? What if we should save even half those slaves still in the pens? What do you think the salvage would be?”

“Salvage!?” Dolif perked up. “I hadn’t thought of that!”

“Is this not the battlefield?” Petaerus gave an enthusiastic nod. “Would you not agree that everything here is given to salvage?!”

“Salvage!” Dolif breathed the word as if it were sacred. “It’s brilliant! We can promise salvage to anyone willing to pick up a weapon! It’ll bolster the number of fighters—and half of them will die on the way down anyway, which will only increase the survivor’s share—and I think Drastorig might rather like the idea of salvage!”

“Come!” Petaerus waved. “We’ll make a coalition yet—and who knows—we might even live to see tomorrow!”

Having previous experience with Drastorig, Dolif led their conversation. Then, having Drastorig’s blessing, Petaerus and Dolif circulated among the survivors and gathered some lower officers to be their confederates. After that, they were able to impose their plan upon the remaining shock troops as they convinced the officers Wilkus, Dreanna, and Shaufenauper through reasoning, negotiation, the mention of salvage, and a couple well timed threats.

The plan of Petaerus the high guard 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, behind Drastarig and his raving acolytes, aided by whatever civilians wished to fight. Then, the guards would clear and hold a path while the remaining 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.

But not everybody wanted to go.

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

Dolif shook his head, “Remind any soldiers of their oath. We can’t have the enlisted men considering their own ideas.”

“And the civilians?”

“To them, I say good luck,” Dolif tipped his helmet.

Petaerus doffed his hat and the two feathers of Meu swayed and bobbed. “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 and Dolif were surprised to find a dead guard and a massive hole in the fence as they approached the pens. "Who is this?!" Petaerus 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 more 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 man to remain, that he might be humiliated. Instead of joining the battle, the guard must watch from afar, robbed of any chance for glory. After all, how hard was it to guard slaves, 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. There were still a few opportunistic rats willing to take a chance—and capable of killing a trained and dangerous soldier 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 guard!?"

"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 knife and stood. "Likely, the rest of us won’t be far behind you,” he muttered.

“Sir...” Dolif tapped his friend’s shoulder. He wore a worried look of 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 in tactics if we hope not to be mobbed and lynched right here...”

Indeed, there was a frantic energy about the slaves. They were scared, despondent, resentful—likely to act in a rash manner if pushed 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 kill a terrible number before they were overcome—and just as likely most of the slaves would simply panic and run if it came down to a direct confrontation...

But the high guard wasn’t really interested in the wholesale slaughter of the slaves. There’d be no salvage for that! Instead, he sheathed his knife, 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 you, or 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!” Petaerus replied. “And let us get rid of any troublemakers that may be among them.” He turned back to the slaves and began to outline a plan. “To those that are free, you may go as you like. And as we leave, we will distract the waokie from you. And as you leave, you will distract the waokie from us. In that way, more of us shall live,” he allowed. “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, as I have! They are relentless murderers! They would kill us all and grind our bones for their meal! If you would be free, if you would live, 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, quite sure what his friend was up to.

With a nod, 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 glared 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.

Wil resisted her. “No, girl. 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?”

“Would you carry me as our enemies press upon you?” Wil shook his head. “As you note, the wound 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 so they might 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 the Ministrians, “FIFTEEN MINUTES TO MUSTER!” They called, to be oft repeated, then amended, as they prepared to march. “TEN 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 so many troublemakers. The Ministrians stepped from sight as they pressed on the south gate.

Those that remained among the slaves started for a small gate in the southeast corner. "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 older 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 prove. “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 Scarad and 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. “Marks to light the way,” she muttered. “A trail to follow…” 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.

After what the young girl did, nobody wanted to look anyone else in the eye.

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 done, look to the love that pours from the stars. They will point you to 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. They demand an awful lot,” she claimed.

With that, Lilyanah turned to Wil.

“As for you,” she kissed and caressed the dying man. “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.” Having said her peace, 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 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 the 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—but that was not the way of it.

Indeed, 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 they 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 as he hoped 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 at the same time. 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 other 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, Ol’ 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. Ol’ 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 suffered on the other side. Bugbear danced and cheered as the Camp and Fort burned for a second night. Most of the bugbear ran south, after the Ministrians, but many—several thousand at least—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 their 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 marble throughout 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 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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