"Gods, this is work I was made for!" Leofric declared as he walked with the company, another battlefield of dead and dying men at their backs. The scent of copper coated their axe-heads and the gentle trundle of the cart behind them set the pace as they walked south.
"Have you considered that this work is unbecoming of man, Leofric?" huffed Govan – a monk that was short in stature with a cleft chin, pronounced lips and discerning eyes. The company had lumbered the monk with a heavy axe, and he was huffing before any of the other Ransomers had broken a sweat.
"No? What work is manlier, to kill a warrior on the field of battle and take what's his?" Leofric's tone was waspish as he glanced sidelong at Govan.
"Those men back there were desperate. Robbers, thieves. We are fed and watered, and well equipped-" Govan started.
"Not nearly enough." Segemund grumbled up ahead. Govan inclined his head.
"Of course captain – but the prospect of killing thugs and vagrants is hardly a challenge, and could be viewed as needlessly cruel."
That got a mocking laugh out of Asbjørn Weaselbane, his perpetual sneer glancing sidelong at the monk. "Where do you think you are, priest? The whole damn world is a bitch with bloody claws." That got a conspiratorial chuckle out of Leofric.
Govan persisted. "What if we had offered those men the chance to break bread and take ale with us? You would have six more men in your warband, captain."
"Yeah, six honourless cutpurses. Too dangerous to bring 'em in." Asbjørn retorted, only to feel a spear shaft rap at his shoulder.
"Let him talk." Adlar said. Asbjørn snorted good-naturedly at the gesture. The drinks they'd bought in Dunkelmark and the victories under his belt seemed to have taken the sting of loss from him.
"Would you say- would you say courage is an aspect of manliness, Asbjørn?" Govan asked.
"...Yes?" Asbjørn said, guardedly.
"And yet courage requires danger to be proven. To trust a man so desperate and so despondent is dangerous, is it not? So I put to you, there is courage in offering such a man your hand, rather than your axe, and to have him add his strength to yours – feeble though it is." Govan admitted.
Leofric went quiet, his boyish face pensive, whilst Asbjørn spat on the dusty road as they walked, bored with the discussion on ethics and personal values. Odbart noticed that Ulf was flagging, same as he had during the last engagement. He took Ulf's bow from him, leaving the breathless bowyer perplexed until he was handed the crossbow.
"Less intensive, once you're in position." Odbart explained. The panting bowyer thanked him with a courteous nod.
"The contract was to kill every thief who had a hand in taking the idol, however." Segemund finally spoke up.
"Aha! Guess we were right to slaughter them all, aye priest? Can't argue with coin!" Asbjørn shouted, goading him. Govan threw him a wink and a smile, which only perplexed Weaselbane.
"So where are those thieves?" Odbart said. The King's Ransom had hacked their way through two groups of such criminals, and there had been no idol. Perhaps it was just coincidence that Dunkelmark attracted such villainy.
Segemund didn't have an answer, his eyes catching the sight of a man sitting dejectedly on the side of the road.
"You tell me, Odbart. Better yet, get that fella to tell you." Segemund said, pointing a gloved hand to the traveller.
"Want I should...?" Asbjørn let the question hang as Odbart fell out of line and jogged past the group, stooping low to speak with him.
"If I wanted him shitting teeth, I would ask you." Segemund said airily, mentally tacking on, I've seen how you rage. He watched Odbart slip silver into the man's hand before jogging back to them. He knew where the thieves were.
They hadn't gone far, trekking to the south-west beyond the road, heading over the Rich Meadows towards the forest. They had stopped to take a breather in the field.
Last mistake. If they'd made the treeline before stopping, they would at least have cover, and have staggered the Ransomer's formation. The band of desperadoes watched them from a distance, unsheathing their swords and hefting their flails and axes.
"Skirmishers – that's you, Ulf – go pelt the big ones, we'll be right behind you. Adlar, set the pace."
Ulf and Odbart started forward as Adlar called out the order to advance at the walk. The two bowmen did a fine job, wounding two of their quarry before killing a third who had been swinging a wooden flail about his head.
One less concussion, Segemund thought with a smile as their lines met. He gave his best roar as he ducked the tree branch swung at him, the edge of Hoggart's falchion opening his assailant's belly. The thief dropped his weapon, clutching at his middle as Segemund reversed his sword, swinging desperately up and catching the thief across the neck. Before he could think, he heard Asbjørn – the man next to him – bellow in pain and rage, staggering back. Before Segemund could look, two more were on him. His head recoiled back as he caught a blow on his brow, feeling panic surge into him as something bit into his ankle boot. He stabbed blindly in a two-handed grip, satisfied to hear a gurgle before he brought the falchion back in a low guard, blinking furiously. He saw the man he'd killed, thrashing on the ground, trying to keep the blood from bubbling out of his throat as the other narrowly missed Segemund's eyes with the hatchet.
Segemund punished him, the falchion's point slipping between the fourth and fifth rib. The man, mortally wounded and unmanned by the death of his comrades, turned to run, only to be impaled by Adlar's spear. The rest were running now.
It was over far too quickly for Segemund. The adrenal rush, the way time seemed to slow as limbs, weapons and bodies collided, every bruise and cut and killing blow sticking in his mind. The rest of the thieves didn't get far, laid low by the arrows and bolts of Odbart and Ulf. He quickly looked over his leg. He was fine.
Others hadn't been so lucky.
Asbjørn's face was one of furious agony as Adlar and Odbart lifted him onto the cart. "That fucker. That fucker!" He cursed. Govan had made a fine job of salving and bandaging up Asbjørn's calf. A hatchet had bit into it, pulling strands of muscle free from the bloodied skin.
"Tell me the fucker died badly." Asbjørn huffed, grimacing as he stared into the clear sky.
"Ran him through myself." Adlar counselled him, glancing up at Govan, giving the monk an appreciative nod for his work.
"Good. Good fucking man." Asbjørn said with gusto, resting his head on the spare tunics kept in the cart, shutting his eyes.
They began to march back towards Eulenkrug, walking the Dunkel road through the night. Every time the cart hit a dip, a hole or a pebble in the road it would elicit a yowl of pain from the surly mercenary trying to sleep in the cart, followed by a string of curses questioning the sexuality, heritage, intelligence and liberal inbreeding of driver, horse and anyone within earshot.
"Asbjørn, all of you? It's come to my attention that no one around these parts know who we are." Segemund spoke loudly.
The wheels trundled, but no-one spoke. Someone spat in the darkness.
"When we reach Eulenkrug, we're going to behave. We've done a lot for 'em to be thankful for, now let's pour on the good manners."
"Why, captain?" Leofric asked, "They've done nought but give you their money and sit on their arses."
Segemund was surprised it was Leofric to say that. They spoke of his home village; but then, those leaving their home often had little love lost there. "We need to pay less for what we need and keep the work coming.
So don't forget to smile. We're heroes, and heroes are entitled to haggle."
In Eulenkrug, they were given a warm welcome, and as Segemund ordered, they were the perfect guests.
Through Gunther, Segemund was introduced to Olaf, the rugged and ragged-robed guild master of the village. Surprisingly, it was Asbjørn who helped him win favour with the suspecting and eclectic guild master – whenever Olaf would speak in length of the statuette's power or the magic on the winds or some other superstitious nonsense, it was always Asbjørn asking stupid, but endearing questions. Olaf, delighted to find a believer in his presence, would be far too distracted to notice Segemund and Gunther sharing a look of long suffering camaraderie before going on to share wine. Adlar, freed from his position as Segemund's second, sat around the firepit of the village with the rest of the warband, this time joined by the inhabitants of the village, all of them jubilant, all of them amiable and keen to hear about how Hoggart the Weasel's sword wound up on the captain's belt. Odbart kept an eye on Ulf, who warily sipped at his mead, surrounded by men and women who disliked him for what happened yet loved him for recent deeds.
Leofric stood amongst the trees, one hand splayed on the bark of a sturdy pine. He leant his forehead against it, whispered a question, and for a long minute appeared to listen. Dissatisfied, he would walk on to the next tree, repeating the process.
Finally, Govan found himself staggering drunkenly off towards one of the huts, the hand of a fletcher's daughter hand in his.
The morning was not kind to the King's Ransom. Adlar, Odbart and Segemund awoke with hangovers, whilst Govan was chased out into the woods in a state of undress by an enraged father with a stick. Leofric returned from the woods with dark rings around his eyes in time for the captain to hand out a variety of tasks and odd jobs. Leofric and Asbjørn were charged with helping the lumberjacks in their toil, whilst Ulf and Govan were seconded once more to the fletcher's store – after the monk had finished profusely apologising. Finally, Odbart and Adlar were given free rein to smooth relations further with the village, with Odbart joining hunters on their expeditions whilst Adlar indulged a handful of youths in stories of the warband's exploits.
"If you ever need a place to rest easy, Eulenkrug'll welcome its saviours back anytime." Gunther promised, clasping Segemund's hand with his.
Yet more days passed as the company travelled south, passing the Dunkel's – the twin towns of Dunkelmark and Dunkelwald – before coming through a stretch of forest to fog-shrouded Blankhoom, a large town by the river. Coin had been spent, and now the King's Ransom were garbed adequately for skirmishes – every man had a surcoat to his name, leather boots inlaid with fur, aketon caps and leather hoods. Several men wore stilettos at their waists, and the two skirmishers had short swords belted for close work.
Well armed, conspicuous and full of vital enthusiasm, they were an element entirely at odds with Blankhoom itself. The town was squalid, with platformed buildings and piers creaking unevenly on rotting timbers. There were tracks and furrows of mud instead of roads, and the townsfolk were insular and wary. A far cry from Eulenkrug, Segemund thought to himself, unfriendly locals, ragged buildings, and a wonderful vista of the marshes to hang yourself by.
"Ah, by the world horse! A tavern!" Asbjørn cried out, eliciting exultant shouts from Leofric and Ulf.
"Sir? Got a promising man for the company." Adlar explained, gently leading Segemund away from the tavern, where the majority of the Ransom had been piling into.
"Gilgen here is a historian. Writes things down. You need an accountant, right?" Adlar asked, showing him to the narrow-faced, gaunt man. His feathered hat was already in his hands, bowing his head as Segemund looked him up and down.
"What's this about really?" He asked his second.
"It'd be nice to have someone to record our names and deeds, whatever happens," Adlar responded quietly, "Plus, he's mad keen."
That got Segemund thinking, pursing his lips before nodding his head. "Reasonable. Can you fight, Gilgen?" The captain asked.
"I can read, sir. Read when it's time to commit during a wider battle. Quick to learn, too!" Gilgen responded quickly, his eyes looking up from his bowed position. Segemund waved him up.
"Well, Gilgen," The captain said, "Your first job as the company's scribe is to tell me who around here needs work done."
Gilgen did his job well, leading Segemund and Adlar both to grey old man by the name of Gunnar, clad in the fur-trimmed cloak, gold chains and fine clothing only a well-off guild master could afford.
"There's an old graveyard to the south west, beyond the marsh that borders our harbour," Gunnar growled as he turned to the window, "and our loved ones are disturbed. Grave robbers have been upheaving our dearly departed for what worldly goods have been buried with them."
Segemund lowered his head, his eyes watching the old man as he looked out at the wild reeds beyond his ghostly, grey town. "So you want the King's Ransom to go in, apprehend them?"
Gunnar rounded on the captain, his teeth bared, looking to all the world like a wounded animal. "No, I want them dead, all of them! Twenty pieces for every scalp, by god!"
Segemund didn't bother to haggle the price. He preferred to rely on people's generosity – and even had he been hurting for coin, Gunnar did not seem mentally sound. He said as much to Adlar and Gilgen as they trooped down the stairs of the guild hall.
"His wife's grave was one of those turned out." Gilgen explained.
"Ah." Segemund and Adlar said as one, stepping out onto the muddy street. As they went back to their cart, the townsmen continued to act unusually. When they thought themselves unwatched, Segemund noted, their eyes looked haunted, hunted, everywhere at once. When they caught him watching, they'd refuse to meet his gaze, acting as though nothing were wrong. He asked Gilgen about this behaviour, his gaze sweeping over the cowed populace.
"A gravedigger by the name of Jan started the rumour. Poor fellow went quite mad, speaking of sounds, voices from the graveyard. He claimed to see 'half-men' in the mists, not dwarves, or short fellows like your Govan, but… incomplete. Missing parts of them. He left town in a rave, but people talk frequently of sightings of these half-men in Bleak Forest." Gilgen explained at length.
"There any truth in the rumour?" Segemund asked, his almond eyes directed at him now. Gilgen paused beneath his impassive gaze, licking his lower lip. He knew that every word of his would be weighed.
"Have… Have you ever seen Nachzehrer, in your travels? corpse-cannibals? Dead-eaters? Grave-lopers?" Gilgen asked, "It has a grey-blue complexion, clammy looking, claws, pupil less eyes-"
"Only one. Adlar and Dytwin, gods rest him, stuck it down with their spears and we finished it off." Segemund interrupted.
"Right, good – I have read many an account of these creatures. They allegedly emerge from those who commit the sin of suicide, who go on to devour the corpse of its… wearer, before setting its sights on the living. Now, if such awful and unnatural beasts as these apparently exist in our world, I wouldn't – I wouldn't discount the thought of direr things being out there."
They set off to the west, following the guild master's directions, keeping to the road as long as they could before they met the treeline of Bleak Forest. Just before its gloomy, green-grey pines and firs, the King's Ransom set up camp. The greenery on the branches gave the moonlight scant chance to filter through.
"No drinking tonight. Give Asbjørn and Gilgen spears. Teach them the basics." Segemund told Adlar.
"You think it's half-men? Could just be bandits wearing pelts." Adlar replied as he obeyed, pulling the warped polearms from the tattered hemp bag in the cart.
"Maybe. If they're human, they can throw 'em down and use what they're accustomed to. Besides, an extra spear never killed anyone." Segemund said.
"Uhuh." Adlar laughed as he turned from the cart, walking to where Asbjørn sat on a fallen oak, extoling his prowess in battle in front of Gilgen, who sat with a company sword across his thighs as the other mercenaries pitched tents on the damp ground.
"You always been like this?"
Ulf went to turn.
"No, keep watching." Odbart warned.
Ulf froze, before resuming his vigil. "Been like what?"
Odbart let out an explosive gasp and Ulf turned on him, wide eyed, expecting to see his ankle twisted in the roots or an arrow jutting out of his ribs. Odbart wheezed hoarsely, and Ulf's hooded eyes narrowed as he realised he was being mocked.
"Since I was a boy," He replied evenly, his eyes sliding off of Odbart to search the dark woods for movement, "You gonna tell 'em?"
He heard grass rustle behind him. "Why'd I do that?" Odbart asked. The bowyer didn't reply immediately.
"Having shortness of breath? Doesn't seem like it'd marry well to this life." Ulf admitted.
"Are you having fun?" Odbart asked.
Ulf glanced back over his shoulder at the veteran, throwing him a look that said 'what do you think?'.
"This is preferable, to life in Eulenkrug?" Odbart tried.
"It's the only choice I have." Ulf replied.
"Then I don't have to say nought, do I? Just don't let down our side." Odbart said, throwing Ulf a blithe smile.
Ulf gave him a nod before tacking on a muted 'cheers', before he returned his gaze to the oppressive crowd of trees.
"Sing out if you see anything." Odbart told him before he ventured back towards the camp, where Govan had managed to get a fire going.
Three hours later, Ulf sang.
"Foemen!" He bellowed as he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking and firing in haste. Against all odds, his arrow flew straight and true through the narrow gaps between the trees, penetrating the gloom and rocking the head of the man in the mist.
What happened next took Ulf's breath away.
The wounded man did not slump to the ground or clutch at the arrow. It walked – no, staggered – onwards towards him, a ghostly moan rolling out of its lips as its green, maggot-ridden head lolled, sightless eyes locking on his. It sounded to all the world like a battered soul waking from a nightmare. It grew closer, clad in the hose and shirt of peasantry, soiled and bloodied. Fully half of his middle was missing, the stench of rotten meat, sickly sweetness and sulphur made Ulf recoil.
Halfmen. The devils own.
"Oh, gods above." Ulf whimpered, his hooded eyes flitting as more of the halfmen staggered out from behind the trees and from beyond the mists. He counted more than ten. Some of them loosely held clubs, hatchets, swords. Ulf scrabbled for another arrow, willing himself to act fast, act right...
"No prisoners!" Ulf almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Segemund roar behind him, his falchion in the air, a dull, glinting beacon in the darkness.
"Grim work today, ransomers. Form a schiltrom," Adlar seconded, the spear twirling in his toying grip as he got in front of Ulf, preparing to fend off the foe, "Ulf, keep firing. Aim for their legs."
Ulf obeyed, drawing the bow as the tall Leofric moved around him, the axe he was so fond of held in both hands. By now, Ulf was familiar with Asbjørn's foul language, and it was tremendously reassuring to hear the surly old bastard bemoan the ignominy of 'having to stand in line'. Govan was nearby, his long face impassive, his mouth moving subtly and silently. Finally, there was Gilgen the historian, the spear wavering in hand. With such company around him, Ulf did not feel so afraid.
A crossbow cracked to his left. He saw a smudge of darkness leap out to strike one of the half-men in the knee cap. Odbart's bolt split it, pitching the dead man onto its front. It did not cry out in pain. It only groaned hungrily as it crawled forward, overtaken by its fellows.
Loose, you fool.
Ulf fired an arrow. Then another, and another. He know he scored a hit on a foe, white feathers sticking out of a thigh before the lines met.
had seen how the King's Ransom had counter-charged the thieves days ago. Even from a distance, Ulf had winced as steel clanged together, bone crunched, flesh tore and split and men screamed for their mothers, their wives and daughters. It had been havoc for both sides, shunting, grappling, stabbing and hacking.
This was different. It was more reserved and disciplined, but no less intense, no less intimate. The undead shambled onto their waiting spears and shields, their teeth gnawing at the paint, groping at the wood. Adlar and Gilgen would thrust and shunt them back, allowing Segemund's falchion to swing down on necks, legs and bodies, whilst Leofric swung his treehewer in terrific, headsplitting arcs. Asbjørn allowed one past his spearpoint with a curse, falling to the ground with a cry as he kept the man-monster's gnashing teeth away from him with his hands-
Until one of Asbjørn his fingers entered the thing's mouth, and Weaselbane screamed.
"Swords!" He heard Odbart cry, and Ulf hurried to obey, rushing to poor Asbjørn. Not knowing what else to do, he stabbed down into the monster's lower back as it writhed atop his beleaguered comrade. Gilgen, who had answered the scream, was there too, following Ulf's lead and stabbing downward, but they only kept the thing there – to Asbjørn's dismay.
Then Odbart was there, barring the blade across the thing's face, a hand on the flat. He pushed upwards, forcing the half-man off of Asbjørn. Far too quickly, the thing's hands were on Odbart's wrists, its teeth biting on the sword slowly, mutilating its own gums, prying rotting teeth out of its head.
Ulf levered the tip of his sword between the thing's teeth and thrusted upwards, punching through the roof it its mouth. It went still.
"Well done." Odbart said as Ulf's blood turned to ice. Ulf saw Segemund, Leofric and Govan fending off an assailant each, but that left far too many unaccounted for -
And that's when he saw Adlar. His feet firmly planted and his shield raised, he was holding the tide of the undead back single-handedly with a storm of fending strikes. Ulf watched as Adlar moved, stupefied. It was as if Adlar's weapon could be everywhere at once, slapping, stabbing, slicing and jabbing.
The bowyer's stomach lurched when the spear shaft splintered under a particularly forceful thrust.
"Oh, shit! With me!" Odbart saw the same thing too and was already moving.
Ulf ran after him, despite the whistling breath in his narrowing throat.
The dark forest ceiling spun in Ulf's failing vision.
"Breathe, bowyer." Asbjørn said, his rugged features leaning in.
"Asbjørn, don't be a fucking prick, give him some space!" Odbart snarled.
"What? He needs to, don't he?" Asbjørn muttered, affronted.
"What's wrong with him, 'Bart?" that was Segemund's voice, stern and cold.
"Shortness of breath. Leaping lung, I think."
"Asthma." Govan the monk gave the disease its true name before his head disappeared from Ulf's sight as Odbart worked to help Ulf out of his surcoat, pulling it over his head.
"Is he gonna die?" Leofric's voice wavered.
The silence was not reassuring.
"Is he?!" Leofric repeated.
"Captain?" Adlar's pronounced brow lifted to regard Segemund's.
Ulf could hear something rustling some feet away. His eyes widened.
"Govan's fucked off, don't worry about him." Odbart's plain, young features reminded Ulf of a child's face. It made him trustworthy. Despite the way his lungs spasmed, he felt like he was in good hands.
"Should we get him on the cart?" Adlar pressed Segemund.
"Is there anything I can do? I can move him." Gilgen chimed in.
"Yeah, write him better." Asbjørn shot back.
Segemund was curiously silent, his mouth a thin line across his heart shaped face.
"Boss, I can-" Ulf's voice was high and quiet, the air he needed trying to fight through the mucus filling his airways.
"Captain." Adlar insisted.
"We can't move him, can we?" Segemund asked Odbart.
"I don't know. I don't know." Odbart muttered.
Another surge of activity in the bushes. Ulf heard more rustling as someone trampled to and from them. He heard stone grinding on stone.
"I don't want to die." Ulf wheezed.
"You're not going to die." Odbart sighed.
"Move, hold him," Govan shouldered his way back into the scrum, holding a small stone mortar and pestle, the latter tallowed in a wet green mulch, "Ulf, you're going to have to drink this, alright? I know it doesn't make sense, but do drink this. Far down as you can, the deeper, the better."
In the presence of a man who appeared to know what he was doing, the other mercenaries hastened to accommodate the monk.
It smelt horrendous.
"Don't back out, it's queenswood and water, it'll soothe your inner pathways and help dissolve the phlegm."
It tasted as good as it smelt, bitter and acidic – but only for a moment as he lost feeling as Ulf lost feeling in his mouth.
"You've poisoned him!" Leofric cried out as Ulf's head tilted back further, his throat spasming on the drink.
"Alright, alright," Govan murmured, ignoring Leofric, "He's going to be okay, put him on his side – smack him on the back, get it out of his system now?"
Asbjørn industriously thumped Ulf's back, bruising the bowyer as he lay there retching.
Eventually, Ulf relaxed. It was an ugly sound now, like a man snoring, but he was breathing.
"Now, would be a good time to get him onto the cart." Govan suggested as Ulf slipped away into unconsciousness.
