Hello internet! It's springtime where I am, so you know what that means...or, maybe you do. My official artist (that sounds like a fancy term) HPE24 has made a new cover for this chapter and I will be replacing her old Whispers cover, so make sure you thank her for all of her contributions and leave a review if you can! Enjoy!
VVVVV
Touring the palisades of Milltown, Kleiner felt like he was trapped within some sort of fever dream. He could feel the nip of the breeze cutting through the cool air, could hear the clanking of armor behind him and the sounds of men, could see the desolate, ashen fields spreading outward from the city like a cancer, but it felt like a dream all the same.
"The first time they tried to rush the gate, we poured boiling oil on them!" the sergeant recollected, almost joyously. "That was a sight to see. They didn't dare come back after that!"
Was that supposed to be a good thing? He sounded like an old man sitting in a creaking rocking chair, reminiscing to a group of uninterested children. The refugee camp was a patchwork of gray and brown, a conglomeration of scattered tent towns built around the wellsprings once used to irrigate the now-abandoned farms. Here and there people milled within the camps, tiny shapes mingling with others and gathering in small groups. Not one of them dared approach the gate.
"You poured oil on them?" Shen repeated, incredulous.
"Well, yes. What were we supposed to pour on them? Honey?" Sergeant Connor asked sarcastically, mocking Shen's surprise. "That would only entice them. No, no, oil it was!" His voice was disturbingly singsong.
"What's the state of the camp's health?"
"Which camp? There are a dozen. They're all dying, so are we, nothing new to report," Connor said, blithely ignorant of Kleiner's genuine concern. Cholera had been claiming tens of lives every day, and hundreds each week. Unable to bury their dead, the thousands of refugees outside of the city had taken to piling them up in giant, fetid pits which began to resemble, at least from a distance, lurid, vibrant portraits when the bodies started decomposing. Even from the walls the smell was strong.
"Lord Kleiner, this is unbelievable-"
"Can we go down there?" Kleiner asked Connor.
"Go down where?"
"The camps," Kleiner reiterated. "I want to see them, these refugee camps." They had passed through before, but he had not stopped to take measure of the state of the cholera-stricken villages. Without a doubt, they would not present a picturesque scene.
"Why, you can already see them," Connor argued, pointing down to the tents below. "You must be stricken with faintness, my lord! You are confused and exhausted, I'm certain, you don't know what you're saying!"
Kleiner was about damn fed up with this sergeant, the same one who had greeted them in the city's plaza the previous day. He turned to rebuff Connor but Shen tapped him on the shoulder and wordlessly turned his attention to the northern highway leading into the city.
A lone rider, mounted on what appeared to be a powerful destrier, was galloping down the avenue, passing empty hovels and quiet tents as he rode. He was heading straight for the gate, and the archers on their towers were nocking arrows.
"Hold your fire!" Kleiner ordered them preemptively, magnifying his voice so that not one word went unheard. Hesitantly the archers lowered their bows and stared down at him as he, unbidden, rushed towards one of the towers and headed for ground level. The knot of militiamen and sergeants followed after him as he ran to the gate, arriving just as the horse and rider entered.
It was really more of a horse and rider because the latter was nearly dead, slumping over in his dirty saddle. An arrow was sticking out of his hip, the cloth doublet and garter around the shaft stained with blood. The horse rode through the gate, unmolested by the guards above, and Kleiner grabbed the reins as soon as he could, wrestling the creature into his control. The slain man fell off into the dirt and was promptly retrieved by Shen and Connor, who dragged the body off to the side.
"Check him out," Kleiner ordered, handing the horse over to someone else. "Where's he from?"
"He's got milord's insignia," Connor said, referring to Lord Willum. "He's from here."
"Where did he come from, though?" Kleiner reiterated.
"Check his pockets and trousers," Shen ordered, stooping down to the man. "He's got belongings. Three messages, it seems, and some old necklace, that's what I'm finding."
"Messages?" The necklace didn't concern Kleiner at all. This man might very well be a courier...and that was the important part.
"Addressed to nobody in particular. They're not personal letters," Shen said, retrieving them.
"Hand them to me. I'm taking them to the council, then," Kleiner announced. "Sergeant, with me. Sergeant Connor, have you and your men take the horse to the stables, take the body to the morgue-"
"Ain't no morgue, milord. We tend to just toss them in the river. It's easy," Connor remarked, almost bored sounding.
"The...just dispose of it," Kleiner shrugged him off, feeling rather uneasy about the corpse. He certainly didn't have a fear of corpses, but this one smelled not only of death but of trouble.
Shen and two of his spearmen followed Kleiner through the quiet city streets, walking as quickly as they could to match his fast pace. Here and there a lone guardsman stood, worn, dull spear in one hand and cracked, scratched shield in the other. Here and there some peddler was displaying a meagre retinue of goods, withered tomatoes and wormy apples coupled with dirty bags of flour and tiny pouches of dry seeds. Here and there someone was sweeping ash off of a porch, just tossing it into the road to join massive piles. Here and there were people, but the city was hardly alive.
Kleiner marched up the steps and burst into the council chambers, bypassing the guards in his haste. The old men were still covening; that morning they had gathered to decide how power should be shared, with Lord Willum still gone. At least one of them had vouched for a new totalitarian state, and another had suggested they all pack up and leave Milltown to its troubles. One of them had fallen asleep and shit his robes.
"L-lord Kleiner!" one of them stammered in surprise upon noticing his presence. "We were just deciding-"
"A messenger has arrived. Lord Willum's own. Dead now," Kleiner spoke, laconic due to his lack of breath. "I have not read it yet."
"A messenger?" The old men began to stir, whispering to one another. Any who had been asleep were now waking, and one of them approached Kleiner and took the message, opening it and reading it to himself. He showed no visible emotion until the end, but his face grew paler as he read and when he finished he had to sit down.
"What did it say?" Kleiner inquired, still standing with his soldiers.
"It reads...that Lord Willum has been slain...at Thellden. Treachery, an arrow to the back, treachery," the old man struggled to speak, looking rather faint. There were a few gasps, a moan of terror, and a very loud oath. Someone also fell out of their chair.
"Dead?" Kleiner was half surprised and half suspicious. Sure, it was possible...but what kind of motives would there be? What was the context of this, too? Had something else happened to cause this? He felt like he was putting his foot into a quagmire.
"The note is true," another councillor said, reading it over himself. "Lord Willum is slain. If our messenger is trustworthy, he has passed on."
"We are left leaderless," someone else began squalling, standing up. "We need a lord!"
"The council remains to lead the city-" Kleiner tried to argue, but they did not heed him. He knew where this was going to go. It was what they had wanted all along...and fate, a single instant of coincidence, had brought their wish to life.
"We are not suited for long-term rule," one of the more lucid elders instructed Kleiner. "It is our job for short term duties, only that. The city needs a real leader."
Kleiner knew where they were heading, oh yes. He looked around at every one of them and could read their faces, know what they all wanted to say but were too afraid to articulate. Kleiner tightened his hands into fists and steeled himself for what he was about to say.
"I will take command of the city until a new lord is suitable for the position."
There was no applause, no congratulations, no expressions of emotion, but he could see their faces light up with relief. He turned his back and walked out, wondering what would have happened if he had said no.
VVVVV
Sir Lyonel rode until he felt like he was ready to fall from the saddle.
The twin towers of the Ditch's entrance rose in the distance, and he knew he had only a mile more to press on, but his mind was clouded with the heat of fever and his eyes yearned to close. He hadn't slept in two and a half days, and it was wearing on him. The constant riding had been as bad as the rain and humidity, the soaking showers of early September dousing him on the road. He had been to every keep, motte and village on the way to the Ditch, trying to spread the word and keep the Alliance together. Leon had to be out there, still.
The sentries at the gatehouse challenged him as he rode up, and he stopped as they came down to open the gates for him. The rain began to soak his cloak once more, chilling him to the bone; thankfully, the sentries were quick and he was inside in a matter of several seconds. His horse was stabled and his heavy clothes were removed and, somewhat damp, Sir Lyonel Cormac made his way into the Ditch, down to find whoever was in charge.
The city had not been hit hard by war, and thus was still a bustling center of economic activity, evidenced by the large amount of small stands and shops that had gone up across town. The old stone bridges and diagonal stairways were as of yet uncovered by ash, and the neighborhoods hewn from rock were full of people, engaging one another and laughing and talking. It had hardly changed at all.
Sir Lyonel was escorted across the main bridge, down to the third level, and through the rocky streets of the city to the main hall. These passages had hardly changed since his previous visit; they had some strange familiarity to them, as if this was a second home. He had only been to the Ditch once, but already he was feeling comfortable in his second visit.
The escort took him as far as the main hall, where they left him with another group of spearmen. Every one of them recognized him and addressed him with his title, and the captain of the Hall Guard took him down into the Quarters, where he found Lord Tanser sitting at one of the writing tables, scribbling notes by candlelight.
"Sir Lyonel?" Tanser sat up, his eyes slowly adjusting to the change in candlelight hue. He had been poring over a mass of papers written in some advanced kind of ink, definitely not naturally-made.
"I...arrived," Lyonel sputtered, exhausted, head clouded by fever. "Just a few minutes ago. I did as much as I could."
"Did you find anyone else?" Tanser asked, setting his parchments aside.
"A few village leaders. Not...not many else. Do we know who survived?" Lyonel asked, collapsing into the nearest chair.
"No other noblemen have arrived here. I know Captain Loyhrs is alive but he's gone purposefully MIA. Looking for Lord Walker, who is certainly in the hands of Thellden," Tanser reported. "I'm surprised to see you back. Close the door, please." The guards outside the conference room pulled the wooden door closed and gave the two men peace.
"Lord Walker is alive. I know they wouldn't kill him, he's too valuable," Tanser began as soon as the door closed.
"Captain Loyhrs?"
"Searching for him. I don't know if he's just MIA or KIA or what have you. It's not our problem now," Tanser said.
"What...would our problem be, then?" Sir Lyonel asked, wiping his hot brow.
"Keeping this Alliance alive. We've suffered heavy losses and we haven't even seen combat yet. We need to sustain the pact," Tanser said, pushing some of his papers over to Sir Lyonel. "Several of these were intercepted from Thellden. It appears that Lord Walker has been forced into giving away his titles."
The knight did his own poring, reading each declaration carefully, struggling to focus.
"It has his signature," Sir Lyonel pointed out. "It's official."
"He wouldn't give everything up like that. We both know him, he's better than that."
"So? What are you saying?" Lyonel asked.
"He could've been forced. Blackmailed, perhaps. We wouldn't give our holdings up either way, even if he wanted us to. I'm not caving in, not now," Tanser said firmly.
"Do you have...a plan?" Lyonel asked, struggling as he stood up. "I need to rest-"
"I have a plan. But we can't rest. Not now. We have no laurels to rest on, SIr Lyonel, you and I both know this," Tanser stopped him. "Thellden will seize the territory they believe is rightfully theirs. We have to defend that. Stanislaus Antar gathers his strength. The undead still march, and we've got new invaders entering our territory. We have no time to rest."
Tanser inhaled deeply after his short tirade, his chest rising and then collapsing slowly.
"I know you're ill. I can see it. I'll make sure that you're provided for, but we have more to do. There's something else I want you to take a look at." Tanser stooped down to his pile of papers and withdrew a strange sheet from it, very fine, smooth paper with typeset, not ink, on it.
"Read it," Tanser ordered. "I have your answers, if you have questions."
Lyonel did as he was bid, reading the typeset carefully and trying to process it all. Was this some sort of trick? A trap, of sorts? Was it official, too?
"Who is this?" was the only question he dared to ask.
"One of Lord Walker's friends, I am told. He corresponded with Dr. Liam Caldwell a long time ago, and apparently Mr. Caldwell wishes to pay off a debt and come to our aid. Or, rather, Lord Walker's aid. Which is by extension-"
"-us," SIr Lyonel interrupted, reading that name again and again. Caldwell...so familiar. Had he seen that before?
"By aid he means anything. Food, materials, men, assistance...weapons," Tanser said, emphasizing the last word.
"Firearms?" Sir Lyonel presumed.
"And more. Modern technology could give us the edge we need. We're in dire straits right now, Sir Lyonel, you know that yourself. We need this assistance," Tanser said.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I need your help keeping this alliance together. Until we can get Lord Walker back, and until we can get our aid, we're going to have to keep this ship afloat," Tanser said. "Are you up to the challenge?"
Sir Lyonel wanted to decline, his head pounding and his legs starting to shake as his fever began to get the better of him. But he nodded his head, affirmative. Lord Tanser returned an approving nod.
"Get some rest, then. And some medicine. You look awful."
Sir Lyonel bowed his way out and thought to himself that times could be much worse. It wasn't really making him feel any better.
VVVVV
Aeric never knocked before entering. He would always just throw open the door and walk in; granted, it was his room, and he had that right. Nevertheless, Will couldn't get used to it, feeling like his privacy was slightly violated. Thankfully most of the time Aeric was alone.
"They're threatening my brother. Sim, that is," Aeric said as soon as he had shut the door.
"Are you alright?" Will asked cautiously.
"I'm fine. I'm worried about him, though," Aeric admitted. "My mother is dangerous."
"He'll be fine, though...right?" Will said, trying to think of something slightly comforting.
"I don't know," Aeric snapped, flopping down on the bedside beside Will. "I have no idea. I hope he stays okay. He's got the guard behind him."
"Are you doing okay?" Aeric asked, turning to Will.
"I...yeah? I'm fine, I guess."
"I hate to have you cooped up here," Aeric said. Will couldn't leave his room at all; it was relatively spacious, with enough space for him to sleep and live comfortably, but he yearned to be free, to go back home, to escape this bloody city. It had been nearly a week since the slaughter of the feast had occurred, and he knew that everyone who had survived was long gone. He wanted to be with them, or even go home. Cassandra was dead now, though...he couldn't return without shame.
"I'm doing fine," Will repeated, trying not to think about it too much.
"I have two of my people searching the tunnels for the best escape route. A lot of the central tunnels are used by my mother or her affiliates, or worse types of people," Aeric reported. "Soon, though, they'll find a route. I know they will."
"I don't intend to leave you," Will declared quietly, turning to meet Aeric's eyes. He stared down the wiry boy, fixated on his face.
"I feel the same," Aeric said, his throat suddenly dry. Will's warm brown eyes were unmoving and he felt suddenly nervous and excited.
"But...you want to send me off still?"
"I...for your own safety, yes," Aeric admitted. "I don't want to leave you Will, you understand?"
"Yeah...of course I do," Will said, grimacing.
"I'm being honest. I...you're the only guy who feels the same as I do. Why would I want to throw that away?" Aeric asked, trying to appeal to his logos.
"I just feel like...I don't belong here, really," Will admitted, struggling to articulate himself. "Like, how did this even happen? I came here one day...and…"
"I've never met a boy as confused as you can be sometimes," Aeric said, smirking. "I felt something click when I met you. Did you feel that same click?"
"I...I don't know," Will said, flustered. "I'm not good...at this...stuff." Will felt like he was failing completely.
"Don't worry, I know. I'm not too good at social stuff either. You and me, we were raised in the shadows of greater people, y'know?"
"What do you mean?" Will asked, wondering if he was referring to Cassandra. Aeric confirmed that instantly after.
"By what you've told me, you grew up as a guardian of somebody you held dear. But you were always in her shadow. She was always the center of attention, was she not?" Aeric prodded. The very mention of Cassandra was upsetting but Will persevered, looking for Aeric's point.
"Yeah...I mean...it was my job, my duty…"
"I'm not saying this as a bad thing, just as...a, well, thing!" Aeric exclaimed, himself struggling to articulate properly. "We're similar, Will. That's our click. We connect. And that's why I don't want you to leave. You're the first boy...that I've ever connected with."
"Really?" Will stretched his hand out and met Aeric's, over the middle of the bed. The latter pulled his partner in closer and they smushed together in the middle, lips meeting somewhat awkwardly but still satisfyingly. Will very nearly fell over after Aeric withdrew, losing his balance and flailing about on the bed before finally regaining a sitting position somewhere in the middle.
"Sorry about that-"
"I don't want to leave, Aeric," Will reaffirmed, reaching out again and grasping his hand tightly, resting on his thigh. "But...I have to go home."
"Someday, I'm sure, you can go home. Maybe I can come with you?" Aeric suggested, smiling.
"You wouldn't be welcomed," Will warned, shaking his head. "I...don't think you'd be allowed to stay. I'm sorry."
He looked up and saw that Aeric had been seriously considering that possibility, and was more than a little disappointed.
"Ah, well," he started, holding Will's hand tighter. "It was a good idea. At the least...I can leave with you. I've got nothing here but my brother."
"You'll leave him?"
"He loves me, but...he simply tends to shove me off into a corner sometimes. Metaphorically, of course," Aeric said. "I would rather not talk about it."
"Of course."
"I just don't want to abandon you, ya know? I don't want to, and I promise I won't," Aeric said, smiling. He gripped Will's hand even tighter. The squeeze was uncomfortable but Will didn't want to hurt his feelings by slipping out of it. Besides, there was an odd sort of warm comfort he felt when his hand was clasped like that.
"I won't leave you either. I'm not leaving without you," Will promised back, leaning in and placing his head gently on Aeric's shoulder. He heard the "I love you", but didn't quite register it. He felt happy enough without that, holding Aeric's hands and closing his eyes.
VVVVV
Erich returned in the dying light of dusk with a rabbit slung over his shoulder, the grisly mark of a broadhead arrow visible on its back. Clearly he was an adequate shot, or else he would've returned empty-handed.
Matt glanced at the kill before returning to his tent, knowing it might take a while for the rabbit to cook. Neither of the officers were good with food but they at least knew how to cook meat properly, they knew that much. The Enderman glared at the rabbit with apprehension but said nothing; he remained their captive, trussed up and forced to march alongside Walid when they rode. Currently plopped down on the dirty ground by the officers' tent, he was quiet and brooding, eyes fixated on the slain creature.
Matt figured he'd lay down for a bit with Sora, and try to relax. His thighs were throbbing and his calves protested with every step he took, exhausted and worn by the long ride, and saddle blisters were tearing up his buttocks.
"Butthurt?" Sora asked teasingly as he entered the tent, clutching the backs of his thighs while trying to stem the pain.
"Ugh, hush," he said, laughing at her joke but grimacing as he sat. "Riding a horse isn't easy."
"We're suffering from the same thing," she shrugged. "I haven't gotten used to it yet."
"God, this hurts like a bitch," Matt swore, frustrated as he massaged his thighs. "I've never really ridden this long or hard before...always on roads, too, never on open country." It was true that he had ridden before, out to the Ditch and down to Thellden, but his mount had always been well trained and reared and he had always been riding on some sort of path or road. Now they were out in the open country, and it was far more challenging.
"Prop your legs up under your pillow. That keeps them from touching the ground, although you can't lay your head...anywhere...hmmm." Sora trailed off in her own thoughts, thoroughly confused by her own proposition.
"Where are we, anyway?" Matt asked, struggling to get comfortable.
"I don't know, don't ask me."
"You're supposed to be the one with the sense of direction. All girls have that!" he joked, and was rewarded with a swift backhand that hit him on the jaw. He figured he deserved that, and didn't pursue the subject. Instead, he reached into his pack and pulled out the pendant, finding it almost instantly amongst the mess of smelly underwear, dirty leathers and worn shirts.
"Matt?" Sora whispered, snapping up straight. "What are you-"
"Just making sure it's alright," Matt assuaged her. The two broken pieces had no effect over him...or at least he thought. He couldn't feel the effects, anyway. Outside, he heard Walid's voice say something about "go ahead and make it bigger, we're already spotted".
"Remember, it could still be dangerous. Darius never, ever trusted it," Sora reminded him sternly. "Just...put it away, please."
"It's harmless," Matt scoffed.
"It makes me uncomfortable. That and...a whole lot of things. Just please, put it away." She scowled to punctuate her demand and Matt begrudgingly threw it back into his pack, wondering if it still exerted any influence even though it was broken.
"It looks fine to me. Something like that's hard to break," Sora said. "Nothing to worry about."
"I know, I know...I just worry. Worry all the time, stupid, stupid," Matt scoffed, now frustrated with himself. Sora immediately raised her brow in concern and wrapped her arm around his shoulder comfortingly.
"Don't be so harsh on yourself," she chided him gently. "It's just a little thing."
"I'm tired, I guess," Matt said. "Tired and crabby. And frustrated, too." He didn't put his arm around her shoulder but he drew his body in closer to hers. They shared the same bedspread and covers and it was difficult to keep apart during the night, one of the more positive aspects of this journey.
"Go to sleep, then. I'm not keeping you up," she joked, patting him lovingly on the shoulder before withdrawing her arm and turning over on her back. Matt rolled over onto his side, facing Sora, and the two exchanged wishes of bonsoir before closing their eyes.
Matt relaxed and tried to settle into sleep, but he was immediately roused by the sound of two swords being drawn from their sheaths, and Walid whispering something impatiently. Instinctively he shot up, throwing the covers off of both himself and Sora, who shrieked furiously as she was suddenly exposed to the chilly air.
"At least a dozen, by my count," Erich was saying, and Matt bolted up, wearing only his trousers, fumbling around the dim tent for any sort of weapon he could take up. He stumbled outside, nearly falling as he exited the tent, leaving the confused and frightened Sora behind to clutch the covers to her body and repeated his name again and again.
Erich and Walid were standing around the fire, blades drawn, back to back, facing outwards. The horses were nickering nervously, and about fifty feet away, on the grassy knolls surrounding their tiny camp, Matt could see shapes moving in the darkness. They were human, that at least was certain. The Enderman, chained at the foot of the officers' tent, was craning his neck to look around.
"Other humans?" he kept asking, struggling against his metal bonds. Nobody answered him, but Matt knew that he was right; they had company.
"Nobody needs to get harmed," a voice called out from the dark, distinctly American in tone, perhaps Texan. "Hand over valuables and weapons and we'll leave you be."
"How many are you?" Erich called out, partially hiding behind a tent flap.
"That's none of your business," the same voice replied, more callously now. "I'll give ya another chance. Hand over valuables and weapons, and you can go free."
"Horses too!" another voice with some sort of South American inflection added. "We need horses."
"You'd better just leave now," Erich called out, gripping his sword tightly. "There's about ten of us down here, all armed!"
"Bullshit!" the Texan called him out. "There's two of you soldiers and some kid without a weapon. We outnumber you three to one." Hearing those words, Matt ducked for cover, huddling behind Erich, right beside the Enderman. The creature glanced over at him and asked him the same question again, but received no response. Matt grabbed a sturdy piece of wood that was in their small firewood pile and held it like a cudgel, hoping it could be of some use.
"We don't want a fight," Walid called out, his deep, baritone voice more intimidating than Erich's. "We're travelers, we have no valuables. You'd only waste time and blood attacking us."
There came no response to that, though, except for some hushed whispers and then the twang of a bow. The arrow was off course, smacking into the dirt about ten feet from the campfire, but it was followed by the sound of footsteps and four bandits came rushing into the firelight, two from the left side and two from the right side of the fire.
Erich and Walid immediately rushed to meet them, one taking each side. They were all armed with spears, of course; none of the bandits had swords, although one of them was carrying a dagger on his belt. Instinctively, Matt stood up and held his stick at the ready, hoping that the officers could hold the bandits off. Another arrow came in, but it missed its target once more, and Matt could hear swearing from afar as Walid, moving gracefully and fluidly, disemboweled an unarmored opponent and moved to square off with the other, who was wearing leather gear. Erich was embattled with two foes, moving quickly to dodge spear thrusts.
Matt dashed across their small camp, rushing for his tent. The horses were going wild, bucking against their reins and lashing out at the wooden stake that their halters were attached to. He ducked and dove into the tent, nearly landing on his backpack as he rolled and dropped his stick in the darkness. Sora was rifling through her own pack, looking desperately for clothing, struggling to contain her terror and desperation. Matt had no idea what he was looking for, if anything; he had dove into the tent just to escape the sudden violence outside.
There was another scream, followed by a dull thud and the sounds of boots hitting the ground. More fighting outside, and a loud twang, another bow, maybe? Matt unconsciously wrapped his arms around Sora and held her down while hiding in the tent, terrified of the thousand potential outcomes of this scenario. Hell, he didn't even know who was attacking them.
There was another loud twang, sharper this time, and the sound of horses and hoofbeats. Sora was struggling to throw him off, seeing as he was very nearly holding her down, and only when she delivered a sharp blow to his abdomen did he move. She still cowered until the woolen covers, as close to Matt as she could be without actually touching him. But now the fighting was dying down; someone shouted, there was a sickening crunch, and more hoofbeats could be heard, soft and unurgent.
Matt poked his head out of the tent, Sora quickly following him as she scampered up to see what was happening outside. There were two bodies by the fire; neither of them were very well armored, and the spears they had clutched were obviously secondhand. Erich wiped blood off of his sword, and two horsemen were walking into camp, both of them clutching crossbows. Sora rushed to throw a shirt and pants on as Matt stepped out of the tent.
"We've been tracking them for days. Murderers and frauds, mostly, a bunch of trash," the most prominent horseman said derisively, spitting on one of the corpses.
"Thank you for your help," Walid was saying, his own sword spattered with blood. "There's only two of us...well, three," he added, when he noticed Matt. The horseman looked over and, after a cursory glance, sneered and turned back. He immediately noticed the Enderman and, while he said nothing, his face turned visibly pale.
"They were bandits, nothing more. Desperate and violent lot," another one of the riders said. "Trying to prey on the refugee camps."
"Is that where you come from?" Walid inquired.
"There's a whole conglomerate of them. East Camp, Star Camp, Tenleytown, Beggar's Brook, you name it. Almost as if we're forming new cities," the rider joked, and he too noticed the Enderman for the first time. He muttered something under his breath and his horse whickered nervously, but neither made any sudden movements. The Enderman looked rather calm despite the fray that had been whirling around him.
"We're heading to Crestan, do you think we can trade in these...camps?" Walid asked. Both of the riders glanced at each other curiously, and the man whom Matt presumed was their leader turned back and shook his head.
"No?"
"City's lost. The Kleisardathans seized it, Lord Kleiner and the Rolfs are missing and presumed dead. You're not going there anymore," he informed Walid, who looked visibly taken aback.
"We...can't? Kleisardathans?" Walid tried to comprehend, connect the dots, but he screwed up his face and cursed loudly instead.
"Crestan's gone, that's all you need to know," the other rider chimed in. "You'd be better off heading south or to the refugee camps."
"And some of the camps might not be particularly welcoming to you. Just saying," the other rider warned, sounding colder than before. "Either way, I wouldn't go to Crestan."
"Don't even consider it," the other agreed. "It's not worth it." He glanced back down at the Enderman and Matt could tell he was clearly bothered by the creature's presence.
Clearly the very mention of the city was enough to unnerve and quiet the horsemen, who were now turning their mounts around to leave, not even bothering to strip the bodies for any of their loot. Walid was left standing in the firelight, sword at his side, quiet. Erich was now sitting by one of the corpses, contemplative.
"And if I were you, I would leave these parts quickly," one of the riders threw back at them before disappearing into the dark. "The dead walk farther."
He did not say anything else, but rode off into the night, following his companion, leaving the camp saturated with the sharp smell of blood.
