We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away,
Like to the summer's rain;
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,
Ne'er to be found again.
- Robert Herrick
Chapter 6: Death and Decay
"Well this has been nothin' but a gigantic waste of our time," Dismas complained bitterly behind him, voice barely audible over the creaking of the heavily laden wagons and the pounding of metalclad feet against aged cobblestone.
Reynauld could not help himself, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. While the rogue did have a point in that there had been no sign of whatever had the lord Alexis worried, that did not mean they were back at the Hamlet yet. To become lax in one's duties was an affront to the gods, who expected all of their servants to be steadfast and unwavering in everything that they undertook.
"If you are so insistent upon finding something to occupy your attention Dismas, then you will be the one taking first watch tonight. And if you continue to complain, I shall double the duration of first watch," he said placidly, confident and secure in the knowledge that Dismas would not dare challenge him. Especially not if such a challenge would lead to even more work.
Though he did not bother turning around to see it, he could feel the heat of the scoundrel's glare upon his back. Reynauld felt his lips tug upwards into a tiny smile, knowing that he had been correct in his assumption. Turning his attention away from the other man and back towards the road and the forest that surrounded it, he could not help but feel that tiny knot of dread, uncertainty, and even fear gnawing away at the root of his stomach flare up once more, threatening to unman him should he allow it to continue. Dismas, as insufferable as he was, had a point. For all the troubles that Alexis had described to them, they should have encountered something by now, and the deceptive calm was slowly driving him mad with anticipation.
They had successful escorted the survivors from the previous caravan back to the civilized lands and had met up with the next one just outside of the forest. Even now, halfway back to the Hamlet, they had still suffered no incidents. He knew that he should be praising the gods that they had granted them peace and success so far, but something was just too wrong with this situation, and every step taken back towards the Hamlet only increased that feeling.
His companions, on the other hand, seemed to disagree given their actions. Dismas had long since given up watching for threats, while the bounty hunter was busy telling stories of his exploits to the pair of guards that Alexis had assigned to them. The two young men, more boys than men, really, were completely enraptured in return by the no doubt-embellished tales of derring-do and close calls. Their attentions were not focused on the cursing teamsters who struggled to keep their spooked animals from running back towards the civilized lands and away from the forest, nor did they pay any mind on the forest itself, which stretched its twisted and gnarled branches over their heads like talons pointed at their hearts. If these men had been fellow crusaders, then such laxity and sloth would have earned them all severe penance duties from a senior crusader, in addition to being placed at the front of the next assault.
Reynauld scanned the tree lines once more, futilely attempting to pierce the unnaturally thick fog that seemed to permeate every part of the forest except for the road. He thought he saw a few glimpses of movement here and there, but discerning which were simply foliage being blown about by the occasional gust of wind and which were unholy creatures preparing to assault them was impossible. The rapidly gathering darkness did him no favors either. Night came on swiftly here in the forest, and he figured that within a half an hour the only light too be found would be their campfires.
He subtly adjusted his pace, slowing down enough that Dismas quickly caught up with him. Ignoring the look that the rogue sent his way, Reynauld leaned over towards him and gave voice to the thought that was growing more and more concrete as time went on. "Whatever is out there will come tonight. I am sure of it," he spoke lowly. The last thing needed was the teamsters to panic and ruin any hope they had of defeating their foe by attempting to flee.
The last thing Dismas was, was professional, but he understood just when he needed to fall into line and obey to the exact letter if he wanted to continue breathing. "Why's that?" he muttered back, doing his best to look inconspicuous as he did. He too grasped that letting the others overhear would result in a catastrophe.
"Every caravan up until ours has been attacked before reaching even halfway to the Hamlet," Reynauld explained. "Most likely our foe is more wary about attacking a defended caravan, but it is also likely that he is simply waiting for us to reach the halfway point, to minimize any chance we might have of escape ."
"Givin' us just rope to hang ourselves then. Those things smart enough to do something like that? Seemed pretty simpleminded to me."
"The creatures themselves, no. But whoever commands them may be so."
Dismas muttered a few choice words. "Got a plan then to get us out of this?" he asked.
"Yes, just be prepared to fight for your life tonight."
"That's the only way I fight."
"I will prepare the teamsters, you alert our companions."
With a grunt, Dismas walked off towards Grancourt and the two guards at the head of the column. With any luck, Reynauld hoped, they would all come out of this alive.
But then, hope is such a fleeting thing.
If the forest had been capable of feeling emotions, it would have been annoyed. These interlopers continued in their attempts to defy it, no matter how many times it slaughtered them and used their corpses to nurture its growth.
It had spent most of the past few days simply content to watch some of these mortals plod their way back outside of it. It had decided that letting these creatures go was the easiest thing to do. After all, it had much better things to be doing, such as tending to its many vales and groves where incredibly toxic blooms flourished in a kaleidoscope of dizzying colors and extending its reach further and further into the so-called civilized lands. Besides, the mortals would fight back if it attacked them, and that risked damage to its precious plants. No, the forest had decided, it would not hinder their leaving.
Yet they had come back, with an even larger group this time. Had they not learned anything? That they were not wanted here? Clearly they had not, considering how they had made it almost halfway to that tumor in its heart, that festering wound that choked its growth.
No, it decided, it would need to send another message. A twitch of its vast conscience sent a group of its beloved children scurrying towards the interlopers. They would tend to this nuisance, and in doing so, would create more children to tend to its gardens.
It was ancient. It was nature. It was life itself. None could stand against it. These mortals simply had not realized that yet.
When they did realize, it would be as the earth beneath their feet flourished with their life energies.
Night had come, and Dismas was swiftly becoming more and more annoyed. Not that he thought that the crusader had been pulling his leg when he had delivered his warning. Reynauld was far too straight-laced for something even approaching a joke.
No, what annoyed him was the fact that while he knew the holy warrior had been telling the truth, there was still no sign of their enemies. He could practically feel unseen eyes settling upon him as he stood atop one of the wagons that had been circled for increased protection.
The caravan had stumbled across a clearing next to the road large enough to draw themselves into a defensible position while still having plenty of space between themselves and the tree line, just in time for Reynauld to call for a halt for the night. Inside the ring a few campfires flickered, intentionally kept low so as to interfere as little as possible with the night vision of the posted sentries. Most of the teamsters were asleep, catching what little shuteye they could before the storm broke. Those that stayed awake circled around their respective fires, blearily staring into the flames as if the lapping orange and red tongues that leapt upwards were speaking to them. A handful worked to reassure nervous oxen that constantly lowed and strained at their ropes, as if the animals were hoping to escape from the horrors that awaited them.
Dismas let out a light chuckle. At least some of them had some common sense. He only wished he had some himself right about now.
In response to his laughter, one of Alexis' guards, Hugonin if he remembered the lad's name correctly, directed an inquisitive noise his way.
"Nothin', nothin', just thinkin' s'all," he reassured the other man. He liked Hugonin. The kid did not give him grief over his past. He was more curious than anything, and had spent most of the trip pestering him endlessly for stories.
Hugonin did not respond, simply turning back to face the inky blackness that surrounded them all, satisfied with the explanation. Another thing he liked about the young man. Professional when he needed to be.
It was then when Grancourt, stationed on the other side of the circle, began hooping and hollering an alarm that split the still night air more effectively than any trumpet could ever hope to.
"Here we go again," Dismas grunted and grumbled, reaching for his pair of pistols from where they lay atop a discarded crate as he did. To his left, Hugonin shifted his spear off of his shoulder with his right hand while hefting his iron kite shield with his left. "You excited for this kid?" he asked while teamsters rushed to and fro behind them, grabbing whatever could be used as a weapon.
Hugonin merely shrugged. "Can't say I am. Suppose they decide they decide to bring out some real nasties?" he asked.
"Then you just stay behind me and watch how it's done," Dismas said reassuringly. Kid was nice, sure, but greener than spring grass. Watching his back was all he would trust him to do if anything with any real smarts decide to pop its ugly head up.
"Right. Maybe I'll jus..." Hugonin trailed off as the first few shapes began to emerge from the trees.
"Th' fuck?" Dismas croaked out in shock.
"I think I'll take you up on that offer," Hugonin said weakly.
Whatever it was that had come lurching out from the shadows was most certainly not one of the walking dead, though it bore some similarities to their previously encountered foes, mostly in the sense that there was a vague humanoid figure that could be identified. Its head, however, looked more like a mushroom than anything else, while gaping holes dotted its torso and legs. Outstretched arms ended in jagged protrusions that looked like they could tear through armor with only minor resistance.
Worst of all though, to Dismas, was the noises. Faintly human-like groans and whimpers emanated from somewhere in their bodies, sounding like someone who had been on the receiving end of a torture rack for a couple of hours. Nothing so clearly inhuman should be capable of sounding so pathetically human in his opinion.
"Th' fuck?" Dismas repeated as he watched the creatures shamble closer to the upturned wagon circle. "Alexis didn't mention none of this crap!"
Without waiting for a response to his proclamation, he brought his pistol to bear on the closest monstrosity. A thundering crack split the air, overpowering the sounds of frightened men and panicking beasts of burden, heralding the launch of a lead ball. Said ball flew straight and true and buried itself within the mushroom-like head of one of the shamblers, which proceeded to burst apart in an almighty spray of liquids. Liquids that were mostly clear in terms of color.
"There was no blood..." Hugonin stammered out, having intently watched the entire spectacle. "What…what the hell?"
There was a moment of poignant silence as everyone, monsters included, seemed to stop and process the death. Suddenly, the groans and whines shifted and became screeches of death, bellowing roars of anger. Within the span of a lone heartbeat and in unison, the man-like fungi started to sprint towards the defenders, seemingly hell-bent on avenging their fallen comrade.
"Ah hells," Dismas groaned as he frantically reloaded.
"Now you've done it old man!" Hugonin shouted as he lowered his spear's tip at the onrushing horde. "We're carrionmeat now thanks to you!"
"My fault? How is this-" Dismas found himself unable to finish, being rudely interrupted by one of the mushroom men jumping atop his wagon in one smooth leap and bellowing in his face. A blast from the just-reloaded pistol hit the thing in the shoulder and sent it spinning away and over the edge. Before he could celebrate, another took its place.
This was bad, so very bad. He had seen a dozen of the creatures on his side alone before the fighting had begun, and he had no idea how many the others were faring on the far side. That was before adding in the possibility of more of these freaks on the way. For one brief second, as he brought his dagger in a downward slash across the creature's stomach, he wished he was fighting something as simple as the undead again.
Another two slashes caught the thing unawares as it stumbled backward from the blow to its chest, taking off its left limb. He took the opportunity to look behind him, where Hugonin had started screaming.
"They won't die!" the man gibbered in stark terror as he jabbed his spear into a monstrosity's thigh over and over, the wounds healing up almost as soon as Hugonin removed his weapon for another plunge. "THEY WON'T DIE!"
An angry growl dragged his attention back towards the beast he had been fighting, just in time to see the damn creature regrow its severed limb before his very eyes before it lunged for him. He ducked beneath the strike, sending the creature snarling into the teamsters below. The frightened civilians panicked before a pair of them laid into the monster with a pair of hatchets, bursting open its head in the process and killing it.
"Aim for the head!" he shouted at Hugonin, hoping the kid heard him. The unabated screaming told him that he was still alive, at the very least.
With any luck, the others were as well.
"I'm getting real sick and tired of these assholes already," growled the bounty hunter from behind him.
Reynauld barely had time to blink as a meat hook was sent sailing past the side of his head, where it proceeded to embed itself in the leg of one of the fungal monstrosities. One quick tug sent it sprawling, whereupon he proceeded to bring his claymore down and split it in half from crown to hip. He had just enough time to pull out the massive sword before a blow from his side sent him flying down into the teamsters below.
With a shake of his head, he pushed himself off the muddy ground and onto his feet before a sharp pain ripped through his battered side. A look downwards revealed that the swipe had torn open his breastplate and opened up a trio of slash marks. Hopefully they merely looked deeper than they actually were.
An echoing snarl, barely audible over the combat and fear, drew his attention back upwards and over the barricades in time to see another group of monsters emerging from the tree line. Unlike the creatures already attacking them, these ones waddled along close to the ground on four bent legs and had no arms that he could see.
"More foes approach!" he roared, though he doubted anyone heard him over all of the general clamor and battle cries that rang out from every direction.
Turning away from the new creatures and back towards the teamsters, he completed the motion just in time to see a hail of noxious smelling projectiles come arcing down into their midst. Many immediately bent over gagging and retching, their bodies making futile attempts to purge the poison that they had no doubt just inhaled. Whipping around, he saw the squat monsters fire off another wave of the projectiles from what had to be from inside their bodies. Craning his neck to follow them, he noticed that there were fewer this time, and though he could only dimly make out their shapes, they seemed to be smaller as well.
The mystery of these new missiles solved itself when they rained down upon the defenders, a pair of them hitting and sticking to a now-panicking teamster. A pair of monstrosities leapt roaring over the wagons and barreled down upon the stuck teamster, tearing him to pieces when they reached him. Their less-than-ideal new location, however, left them surrounded by a large crowd of angry men determined to work out their fear and avenge their fallen friend. The pair were torn apart in a shower of disgusting ichor within seconds after coming under assault by a dozen and a half makeshift weapons. This did not bode well at all. A few more concentrated attacks like that, and all of the individuals capable of actually using their weapons would be concentrated upon and killed, leaving the rest defenseless.
Someone had to do something. With a pained and resigned sigh that echoed throughout his helmet, he knew that someone was most likely himself. Glancing around, he found the one soul he could relatively trust at the moment.
"Dismas!" he shouted to the rogue as he jumped up atop a wagon beside the man, sword flashing as it cut one of the fungus men in twain. "Are you still capable of fighting?" he asked when he saw the blood flowing freely down the man's chest.
"I'll survive," came the answering yell, barely heard over one of Dismas' pistols discharging directly into the chest of a thundering monstrosity. A quick sideways slash followed, relieving the beast of its arms, whereupon Dismas finished it off with a jab to the bloated sac that made up its head.
"We'll not survive this much longer," Reynauld said as the pair gasped for whatever air they could. Down below one of the creatures smashed its way through one of the wagons, sending splinters of wood flying. It wasted no time in launching itself at the remaining teamsters, who now numbered a mere twenty, down from the original mass of eight and thirty. The workers managed to dispatch it, but not before another three of them lay torn to pieces on the earth.
"Those creatures outside are disrupting our defense, and seem to be directing the rest," he explained. "I shall deal with them, but I require you to deal with the remaining creatures."
"I can do that, sure" Dismas said as he applied a bandage to his chest wound, grunting in pain as he began to exerted pressure on the gash. "Just don't take too long, or you'll be running off to his precious lordship all by yourself."
"Rest assured, I will not be long."
"'Rest assured,' he said, 'I won't be long,' he said. Where the hell is he already, that useless fuck?!" Dismas shouted as he dodged frantically beneath a wild swipe directed his way by one of the walking man-like mushrooms.
In the back of his mind, some tiny piece remained conscious of the normal passage of time. It attempted to remind him that it had only been a few minutes since the crusader had set off to deal with the monsters that were bombarding them from afar. It also attempted to point out the fact that there had been a good half a dozen of the things out there, and that killing them would require some time, especially if they required as much effort as their upright kin. The rest of his mind, firmly controlled by his self-preservation instinct, promptly told said tiny piece exactly where and how deeply it could stick its rationality.
"What's the matter Dismas?" Grancourt puffed out exhaustedly next to him, gutting one of the beasts with his meat hook before finishing it with a horizontal swipe courtesy of his axe. "Not used to actual fighting? More used to just running all the time?" the bounty hunter jeered. "Makes for a nice change of pace, dunnit?"
"Why you aren't dead yet, I'll never understand," Dismas snarled as he sheared off a hand from the creature that had lashed at him. "Woulda thought your big ego woulda slowed you down enough."
"Can we focus on killing these things please?!" Hugonin pleaded desperately to his left, spear jabbing outwards to drive back Dismas' foe.
The three of them now comprised the only line of defense between the remaining creatures and the remaining teamsters. Alexis' other guard, Crayson, if Dismas remembered the name correctly, had gone down screaming two minutes ago, a monstrosity's claws planted firmly in his chest cavity. Terrible shame, that. Crayson had been one of the few willing to play cards with him.
"What's the matter kid? Scared?" Dismas panted as his hands danced desperately over his pistols, reloading as fast as he could while the others kept the creatures at bay. The spikes of pain that rippled through his chest due to the "Well don't be! Fuckers wanna kill you!" he proclaimed as he finished reloading the first pistol, just in time to send a bawling monster reeling backwards from a shot to the leg. "Get mad about it, not afraid!"
"So inspiring," Grancourt sneered as he booted the stumbling creature into a guttering campfire, where it promptly turned into a blazing torch. "Did you get that one out of some shitty novel you stole? Didn't know you could read."
The remaining creatures, reduced to a mere eight now, shuffled backwards warily as they observed the fate of their comrade. Given the ease with which they took to flame, it was no surprise that the beasts did their best to keep their distance from anyone who utilized fire as a form of defense, especially after a number of teamsters had taken to turning them into living torches. Such an act, however, would garner the immediate attention of all of the fungi men in the area, who would then work to take down the igniter no matter the costs to themselves. Grancourt, with a single action, had caused the entirety of the surviving creatures to focus on them, and them alone.
"Shit," was the only response the bounty hunter could come up with as soon as his brain had processed what his body had just done.
"Shit indeed you idiot," Dismas said in response.
"Oh hells," Hugonin muttered. "Now what do we do?"
The highwayman considered that question for a moment. If Reynauld had been in his place, then the holy man would have no doubt cooked up some heroic-sounding speech on the spot, reminding them all about their duty to protect the frightened civilians behind them. The crusader would then have gone on to mention how the gods would protect them from the evils found in the darkest corners of the world. Dismas however, being Dismas, stuck to one simple phrase that he had found to work in situations similar to this one.
"Fuck 'em up good."
The answering roar and subsequent charge would have left no time for more words anyways.
Another one of the fiends fell before his holy blade, bringing his count up to nine and leaving only one of the ranged monstrosities left alive. Sensing its predicament, the beast ran as best as its form allowed it to, resulting in a strange mixture of hops and waddling that was all too slow to escape the crusader bearing down upon it.
A downward stab punctured through its pliable not-skin and slammed its way through whatever passed for its internal organs before bursting out of the opposite side with ease. A rapidly-expanding pool of gray ichor puddled beneath it as Reynauld drew out his claymore and let its limp body collapse to the ground in a heap.
The holy warrior fell to his knees next to it the moment it touched the blighted earth. He had caught a full blast of strange vapor that one of the beasts had emitted in self-defense, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel every last bit of it working its way through his muscles. By the gods themselves, it felt like he was burning from the inside out.
Slowly he worked his way back onto his feet, aware that though his part out here was finished, there was still a battle to be won. Through gaping holes rent in the wagons, he could see figures fighting and dying, their shadows eerily cast in huge caricatures against the forest by the dying fires. He jogged back towards the fray, the muscle pains leaving him unable to manage a faster pace. He could only hope he arrived fit enough to bring ruination upon his foes.
As he shimmied his way through a gap and into the remains of the circle, he could see that the others were still alive, though only just so. Grancourt was bleeding heavily as he harried a fungi man, attempting to keep the thing away from Dismas, who already had two of the creatures coordinating attacks from both of his sides. The remaining guard was fighting purely defensively, merely trying to stay alive at this point.
Gathering what little energy he had left, he threw himself at Grancourt's foe, cutting it down before it realized that another enemy had joined the fight.
"About damn time you showed up," the bounty hunter panted, blood leaking from the sides of his mouth as he spoke.
"The creatures were more formidable than they initially appeared," Reynauld admitted, though it galled him to do so.
"Whatever, let's just—"
Before Grancourt could finish his sentence however, an earsplitting shriek echoed throughout the clearing, causing everyone not fighting to turn and see a truly disturbing sight.
The remaining guard had had his weapon and shield battered out of his hands, and the shambling beast had proceeded to impale the unfortunate man upon its talons. Rather than outright killing the poor soul however, things began to shift and snap beneath the man's skin, the flesh stretching and deforming horribly as bones reformed themselves in the most painful fashion imaginable to accommodate the new form taking shape before their eyes. An ugly and sickly shade of green blotched outwards from the site of the impalement in the guard's chest, oozing virulently into areas that had been already changed. Even the screams of horror and agony that erupted profusely from the man's mouth were not left untouched, slowly but surely becoming more and more like the groans and whines that had layered the air ever since the creatures had arrived.
"Holy hells…" Grancourt murmured behind him. For once, Reynauld felt no need to chastise the man for his blasphemy. The statement encapsulated perfectly everything he was feeling at the moment.
He lifted the claymore off his back, ignoring his lurching stomach. "Go and aid Dismas," he said, not looking back at the gaping bounty hunter. "I will do what is necessary."
The crusader did not bother waiting for an answer. Such profane desolation inflicted upon a fellow human being could only be answered with one punishment: death.
The foul creature turned and dropped the writhing mass that had once been a person, bellowing in his face as it no doubt prepared to do the same to him. Reynauld refused to give it the chance, cutting into the creature with all of the strength that the righteous fury burning inside of him granted. Within seconds the beast was reduced to twitching pieces scattered about on the ground.
He had no idea how long he stood there, teeth clenched and blunting his fury by turning the already-tiny pieces into even smaller ones before a low moan worked its way into his consciousness. Turning to face the source, he was confronted with the half-transformed guard still lying upon the ground where he had been dropped. A mixture of blood and ichor oozed sluggishly out of a quartet of puncture wounds where he had been impaled, the resulting stream snaking its way through the blackened dirt until it lapped eagerly at his iron greaves, mingling with the blood already present there. Though the man's head had remained mostly intact, an odd lump protruded from his throat, rendering him unable to articulate the sheer amount of pain that he was no doubt suffering. And the eyes…
Reynauld had seen those eyes before a hundred times over. They were the eyes of a man who knew that he was within minutes of joining the gods at their sides, and was afraid. Afraid not for his immortal soul, for he was already long past such a state, but rather afraid for those he would leave behind. For those he felt he had failed.
Such eyes had no place in the boyish figures still present on the man's face.
Reynauld knew what he had to do, yet those eyes seemed to taunt him with every tiny movement he made. They reminded him of his oath, and how he had failed to uphold it once again.
Never again, he had sworn. Yet here he was, again, preparing to grant yet another soul the peace of the gods.
He was faintly aware of Dismas and Grancourt shuffling up behind him, their eyes transfixed by the sight before them. He did his best to ignore them. To ignore the eyes. Gods damn those eyes.
With one smooth motion, he brought his blade flashing downwards. Just before the strike connected, he could see those eyes shift. Shift to acceptance and thankfulness. He hated it when the eyes did that too.
As the head went bouncing away, taking the eyes with it, Dismas summed up what they were all feeling then.
"Fuck this place."
