He dreamed.
They were on the hill. He and his comrades fought with the desperate ferocity of doomed men. The enemy was relentless, and for every opponent cleaved by axe and sword ten more took his place.
He rallied his comrades to keep fighting, to push back and reclaim lost ground, but it was a hopeless fight. The enemy flanked them, trapping the warriors on three sides. They were pushed back inch by inch off the crest of the hill. Their high ground was lost, and the enemy stood tall against them.
This was the day of the end. The downfall of Forossa, land of the Lions.
The clamor of battle throbbed in his ears. Once, his heart leapt at the sound. But not this day. His countrymen were dying around him. Their spilled blood splattered his face and garments. High above, thunder rumbled in the dark clouds. He swung his axe and killed another foe, but yet another opponent pushed past the falling body and jabbed swiftly with his sword. He was caught by surprise. He fell. He looked up into the eyes of his slayer. The knight raised his sword for the killing blow and –
Gunnar's eyes opened as a shiver of terror rolled over him. Another nightmare.
There was no hill, no thunder, no knight intent on killing him. He was in his tent. The smell of dirt and excrement and frying meat filled his nostrils. The cold dawn air cut through the gaps in his tent flap. He rose and rubbed his eyes. Another nightmare, the same one every night, and still it filled him with dread.
He put on the old robes that once marked him as a Northwarder of Forossa. That title had carried weight once. He led warriors into battle, stirring them with the verses of the war god and promises of glory. He invoked Faraam's power to bring victory to his people and destruction to their enemies. He was honored as a voice of the god.
But in Drangleic he was naught but a curiosity. Foreign men with haughty eyes looked at him and saw the old superstitions of a barbarous country from across the sea. A nation long since dead.
He stepped out into the damp morning. Northern Drangleic was a perpetually wet place. The boreal forests were cold, misty and muddy. The chill he could endure. Forossa, too, had been a cold northern realm. But the damp was maddening. Everything was always soaked in this wretched place.
Gunnar's men were gathered around their campfires eating their rations and grumbling about the weather, about the long march ahead of them and about their general lot in life. A wave of shame washed over him. These men looked to him for guidance and encouragement, both spiritual and martial. He wasn't fit for such a position. Not anymore.
He nodded to his warriors, who unconsciously sat straighter as he passed by. He seated himself beside Thrandor and held out his hands close to the warming fire.
Thrandor studied his old friend. "You should eat."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need food before a battle. Keep your strength up."
"There won't be a battle. We'll put down a few peasants, maybe a rogue knight or two, then this baron or count or whatever he is will sue for peace."
A young warrior of no more than eighteen years heard this remark and shook his head. "It's a disgrace, sir. We are just spare swords used to bully some fat nobleman. To blazes with this, don't we deserve a real fight?"
"Have a care, lad," Thrandor warned. "We've marched through mud and rain without any fight at all, and what have we gained for it? Gold in our pockets and food in our mouths. Mind yourself," he said pointedly. "Be grateful for what our employers pay us."
At this, another man hocked and spat on the ground. "Fighting for pay. Foreign money jingling in our pockets and foreign food on our plates. We march to the orders of foreigners to fight battles that aren't our own." He turned to Gunnar. "What does Faraam say about fighting for money, Northwarder? What does he say about living as dogs for masters who laugh at our humiliation? Where is the honor in a mercenary's life?"
Gunnar locked eyes with his questioner, his expression cold and inscrutable, but said nothing.
"I imagine he'd say what any god says," a haughty voice spoke up. "Obey your betters and keep your mouth shut and your sword arm at the ready."
A Drangleican knight sauntered into the camp, accompanied by two cronies. He stretched his neck to work out a kink, as if the very sight of them made his muscles ache.
"You Forossans have done nothing but grumble the whole way. What's wrong? I thought you folk lived in the wilderness. Running naked through the forest, eating raw meat and whatnot. The bards sing of Forossa's terrible warriors. Men of strength and determination."
"Not strong enough, I'd say," one of his subordinates sneered. "I've heard stories of Forossa's fall. It bullied its neighbors for years. Then all those neighbors joined together and crushed it in a fortnight. Not so terrible now, are you?"
The eighteen-year-old stood up and came within a hand's breadth of the knight's face. The other two Drangleicans had their hands on their sword hilts, but the knight stood firm and looked at his challenger with bemusement.
"Do not say such things!" the boy cried out. "Our country withstood our enemies for many years! The Lion Knights fought to the last man, and took thousands with them in death! Do not dishonor them!"
"That is enough, boy," Gunnar said sternly. "Sit down."
"But this pig, he insults –"
"You heard your master," the knight said with a smile. "Down, boy."
The young Forossan's face contorted into a mask of anger, but he sat down and glared into the campfire.
The knight and his escorts strolled among the Forossans, regarding them much as a nobleman might enjoy his personal menagerie. "What a bunch of brutes," one said. "In their natural element, I'd say, chewing on meat in the mud," another snickered.
Then they came upon one Forossan, broad-shouldered and hunched over with his back to them, a bowl of gruel in his oversized hands. The knight stooped over, trying to see the man's face beneath his mop of black hair.
"Look at this one! This looks like a real slugger. Hey! Are you a Lion Knight, eh? Is it true you paint yourself with the blood of your enemies? Come now, let's hear you roar!"
The man turned to look at the knight. Gunnar saw who it was. He hissed a curse and rushed toward them, foreseeing the fiasco about to unfold.
The large man threw his bowl away and stood up. The soldier's smirk turned to fearful uncertainty as he unfolded to his full height. He looked down at the Drangleican and smiled.
"Do I roar?" he said with a voice like grinding stone. "Only when I kill a man. Only when I see the life leave his eyes." He took a step toward the soldier.
"Vengarl," Gunnar said sternly. "There will be no violence here."
Vengarl ignored him. "Have you ever heard a man try to scream as his head's torn off?" His smile was like a cat baring its fangs. "It's a hard thing, twisting off a man's head. The spine is strong and has to be broken. But some men," he laid a hand on the now-terrified man's shoulder and squeezed. "Some men have weak spines. With a touch they just snap."
"Vengarl!" The Northwarder gripped the giant's arm like a vice. "Stand down. Remember your place. There are no honor duels in Drangleic."
"A pity," Vengarl growled. "This man challenges me. Surely he fears not a barbarian of a fallen kingdom? Surely he will stand by his proud words? What say you?" he barked at the knight. He took a step back, arms raised in invitation. "Take up your weapon! Come at me!"
"Vengarl, enough!" Gunnar raised his hand between the two men. A spark erupted from his fingers, a hint of the magick he could summon at a moment's notice. The knight cowered at the display. Vengarl didn't flinch.
"What goes on here?"
The commandant of the Drangleic troops strode through the Forossan camp, his eyes fixed on the trio.
"Northwarder!"
Gunnar stepped forward.
The commandant eyed him severely. "It was my understanding that men of your caste were able to keep your fellows in line. I will not tolerate rabble-rousers among my troops." He gestured at Vengarl. "Keep your beasts on a tighter leash. Or I will have no choice but to put them down."
Vengarl's nostrils flared at these words. He made as if to move toward the man, but restrained himself.
Gunnar nodded his acquiescence.
"It shall be as you say, my lord. My men will trouble you no more."
The commandant gave one last appraisal of the Forossan camp, shook his head, and ordered the knight and his two cronies to follow him. Gunnar doubted they would receive much discipline for their part in the debacle. He turned back to Vengarl.
"We are no longer in Forossa, Vengarl. The men of these lands are not as we are. They use words carelessly, and so you must treat their words as having little worth. Faraam calls for honor in all that we do, and there is no honor in slaying a man of lesser quality."
"You speak to me of Faraam's tenets, Gunnar?" Vengarl snorted. "You left that path long ago, atop a blood-soaked hill." With that, he walked away and vanished inside his tent.
The words stung, for they were true, but they did not hurt as they might have many years ago. There was but a dull ache inside Gunnar now, where once a fiery passion had burned.
The Forossans and Drangleicans broke camp and marched north through the fog-ridden forest. A light drizzle followed them along the trail.
The expedition was a thousand men strong, mostly Drangleicans. Proud men, scions of a grand nation who were lord of all they surveyed. But among them were also two hundred Forossan mercenaries, each of whom Gunnar knew to be worth ten Drangleican soldiers.
Forossans were true sons of war who fought for honor and pride and the joy of battle. Such things were foreign and detestable to the people of Drangleic, who waged war for territory and money and temporal power. But they could not deny the Forossans' battle skill and so employed many of them in their armies. Gunnar and his men were survivors, beaten but not broken, forged in fire and blood. Knowing naught but battle, they sought out war and conflict as their bread and butter. And yet, they chafed at the thought of being nothing more than stooges under foreign authority. Their livelihood was a blemish upon tradition and history.
As if to further diminish their dignity, the commandant had assigned the Forossans to the rear guard. Gunnar remembered his homeland, where the rear guard was a place only for the cowardly and the disgraced. A true Forossan yearned to be first in the charge.
And then he recalled how many had died in countless such charges, as senseless and wasteful as the wars Forossa waged against its neighbors. At the last, the surrounding nations gathered together as one and overwhelmed the bloodthirsty country. By the sword Forossa had lived, and by the sword it died. Its greatest fighters, the Lion Knights, had been first in the defense, they whose ranks were filled only by those who had slain a hundred men each and received the personal blessing of Faraam. They were almost all wiped out.
Gunnar scowled at the memories. He had led Lion Knights into battle. His exhortations had driven them to fight and kill for the honor of Forossa. Honor. A useless thing. What good was it when it led you to the grave? When all that was left of your culture was a bit of armor and a chipped sword?
While he clouded his mind with these dark thoughts, his comrades passed the dull march with talk of previous assignments.
"It wasn't like this fighting the Varangians," one reminisced. "No trudging through mud and filth. That was a real battle, not like doing a Drangleican's dirty work."
"Varangians knew how to put up a fight," another agreed. "Good, bold men who came straight at you with sword and axe. Good days."
An old warrior, about Gunnar's age, snorted softly. "I remember the old days, when I fought for my people, not for foreign kings. The wars against Mirrah and Jugo and the distant East. When one was truly proud to be a Forossan, when the Lions reared their heads in joy and fury. Not like this." He waved a dismissive hand across the gathered Forossans on the march.
"But Forossa fell," the first warrior observed. "Isn't glory only gained in victory, not defeat? The old kingdom was lost. What pride can come from that?"
"Still your tongue, boy," the old warrior snapped. "You were no more than a whelp, then. You don't remember the greatness of the old days."
"Forossa was cheated out of a fair fight," another marching beside the old man added. "Overcome by many cowardly foes at once. They used treachery to strike against us."
"What's your point?" the first man persisted, "Here we are marching against a fat baron and a handful of peasants. There'll be no fair fight today, either."
"Enough of that!" the old warrior snapped. "Another word from you, boy, and I'll lay the flat of my blade across your face!"
A moment of tense silence passed.
"I think it was betrayal," another youth piped up, stirring the embers still more. "Somebody betrayed the king, betrayed our lands to the enemy."
"Nonsense!" yet another voice shouted. "No true Forossan would show such dishonor!"
"We were overwhelmed! Nobody could have defeated so many armies at once!"
"And they only came against us because the old kings hungered too much for battles!
"And you don't, you money-grubbing devil?"
"Enough!" Gunnar's voice carried across the swell of voices like a dragon's bellow. "I'll have no bickering among us. Let the past be the past. We approach our battleground."
He had seen the Drangleican ranks halting ahead of them. Sure enough, the procession ground to a stop and the Forossans stood in the mud, awaiting orders.
A messenger rode from the front to inform the rear guard that a river blocked their path. The lone bridge crossing it only allowed three or four abreast at a time. It would take quite some time for the whole army to cross.
The drizzle turned to a steady rain as they waited. Gunnar raised his hood and restrained the urge to join the others in grumbling. Thrandor walked up beside him.
"Bitter, these young ones. As bitter as the old."
"Children disdainful of tales of old glories they care nothing about. And old men remembering what they've lost and hating the world for taking it from them."
Thrandor frowned and remained silent.
At last, they crossed over the turbulent river separating the forest from the baron's estate. The bridge was small but sturdily built and supported by strong oaken beams that sank deep into the water and rock. There was no fear of a thousand men's footsteps breaking those stout planks. The baron must be a conscientious man, to maintain this bridge so well. Small wonder, considering it was the only way in and out of the valley he governed. Enclosed on east, west and north by mountains and south by a wide river, it was a well-defended territory.
Which confused Gunnar. Why, then, leave this bridge undefended?
Indeed, they met no one on the valley road, though they passed a couple of abandoned wagons. Perhaps word had reached the enemy that the army was coming, and they had found it more prudent to withdraw than to forestall their advance.
The rain had dissipated by the time the army gathered on a low ridge overlooking the valley's heartland. With the weather cleared somewhat, the position offered a grand view of the landscape. Gunnar was summoned to join the commandant and his lieutenants while the troops set up camp. The commandant already had a table brought out and covered it with a vast map of the territory. He was frowning heavily and surveying the land with a telescope. Gunnar followed his gaze. The road cut straight through the southern hills and led into a quaint-sized town surrounded by farmland. Beyond that, just a pale silhouette in the fog, was the baron's castle. Judging from the map, it was built atop a slanted rocky outcropping that was a smooth slope on one side and sheer on the other, like a turtle's shell cut in half.
"No movement in the town," the commandant observed. "The villagers will have already retreated to the castle. Scouts report that it is a formidable fortress." He lowered the telescope and turned to his men. "Even so, we have the greater numbers. We raze the town and whatever crops remain. Send men into the forest to craft a battering ram. Make ready the trebuchet. We'll hurl firebombs along with stones into their courts. Let them know that Drangleic brooks no traitors."
As he barked out further orders, Gunnar looked on with a sense of foreboding. He gazed into the sky and followed the movements of the clouds. Where others might see only a single mass of grey, he watched the subtle contours of clouds blending together, hints of light from the sun above and patterns of good and ill revealed by Faraam.
There was danger here. Greater than any mortal army.
He turned to the commandant and requested permission to speak. The man looked at him impatiently.
"Does the Forossan have worthwhile input on strategy?"
"Forgive the interruption, my lord, but I feel there is something wrong here. The signs in the sky warn me of a greater threat lurking here. I fear we walk into a trap."
"Superstition and children's tales," an officer sneered.
The commandant pierced Gunnar with his gaze. "Do your auguries tell you such, Northwarder? Or do you have more than Forossan religion to share with us?"
Gunnar looked out again over the village and castle and pointed. "See there? The corn fields. You can just make them out in the mist. The stalks are tall, not yet reaped. And yet we are in the midst of harvest time. And the wagons we passed on our march were still filled with goods. Why abandon such things when an army approaches? Why leave behind food needed to survive a siege?"
"Perhaps they did not have time."
"And the bridge? If they had time to retreat into the keep, they had ample time to prepare for our arrival. So why leave the bridge standing? Better to destroy it."
The captain nodded. The point was valid. It was a gross oversight to leave such a valuable objective easily taken.
"What sort of trap do they lay for us?" he asked.
"I'm unsure. My auguries do not say. But there is something … foul in that valley. Something against nature."
"This is all meaningless talk," another officer insisted. "The siege should be started immediately if we are to –"
"Discretion has its place in war," the commandant cut him off. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Very well, Northwarder. You shall reconnoiter the area to see if any deception is at hand. Take some of your men come nightfall and scout the area. Return to us at daybreak and inform us if your premonition is true."
The officers protested this delay, warning the commandant that it could give the enemy time to stage an attack, or even flee, but the commandant was steadfast on giving Gunnar a chance to prove his intuition correct. If nothing else, Gunnar could give him credit for that.
Night came quickly. The cold winds whispered through the hills as Gunnar and his handpicked team departed the camp.
He took nine men with him, including Thrandor. Some young, some old, but all had proven themselves as worthy warriors. He sought also men who had some understanding of subtlety and who were at peace with sneaking in the dark. Fortunately, not all Forossans were hidebound to thoughts of proud combat and valiant deaths.
And then there was Vengarl, but Gunnar sensed he would need at least one monster among the men. Something lurked in the darkness, and he knew not what. A fighter who could cleave a man in twain with one stroke would be useful.
The road was flat, running through a cleft in the hills into open farmland. As they neared the village they left the trail and sneaked through the cornstalks. It was a dismal autumn night, the half-moon's light dimly glowing through patches of cloud. They found their way through the tall stalks, uncut and untouched as Gunnar had already observed from afar, and came upon a farmhouse on the town's outskirts. The clouds parted long enough to offer them a quick glimpse inside. Nothing, not a pig or chicken or rat.
Thrandor scowled. Gunnar looked at him askance.
"They took the animals, but left the straw."
It was true. Animal feed and straw were still in their troughs and piled high in the rafters.
Beyond the dilapidated farmhouse, Gunnar split his men into two squads. One would circle the western fringes of the village. He and his group would take to the east.
It was easy going. The rickety watchtowers were unmanned and there were no lit torches. Gunnar supposed this made some sense. No one would waste men and resources guarding the village if its inhabitants were all safe within the castle.
A pungent odor pierced his nostrils. They were passing by a small garden. Thrandor and another man, Stark, took a closer look. Thrandor knelt down in the patch.
"Rotted."
Stark poked a cabbage with his foot, stirring up the flies resting on it. "Whole rows here. Not a one picked, I'd wager. Never touched."
The unease grew in Gunnar. They passed two more such gardens, containing vegetables and fruit long since gone bad. But the worst came when they reached the northern end of the village. They smelled it before they saw the shape lying against the wall of a stone house. Stark drew near to investigate the stench and returned to the squad gagging.
"Blood of Faraam," he whispered. "A horse. The whole carcass left to rot. Must have been dead for a month, at least."
"Bloody lazy peasants can't be bothered to bury it," Vengarl muttered.
No, Gunnar thought. A suspicion was forming in his mind, but he dared not voice it until he knew for certain. He ordered the men onward.
The clouds overhead opened to let more moonlight through. They saw their way much more clearly as they neared the far side of the village. Stark, an experienced tracker, knelt low to the ground and observed footprints, many dozens of them, headed in the direction of the castle. As they came within sight of the structure, they all fell to their bellies and hugged the ground closely.
The castle was very large and defended by thick walls. Its shape blotted out the night sky like an ink stain.
Gunnar detected something amiss. The youngest of the five, Roran, spoke before he could.
"No torches? How do the watchmen see?"
There were indeed no torches, nor even the flickering lights of candles or braziers coming from the windows. It was black and still as death.
"Plague?" Stark suggested. The others shuddered at the thought.
"More likely they expect us," Vengarl ventured. "They seek to lure us into false security."
"Northwarder, someone's left the castle," said the other youth, a stocky fighter named Brand.
"What's that?"
"Look, the gate. It's down."
This disturbed all present. An undefended castle, a village full of food gone to waste. There was something ominous at work here, more than a simple trap or grievous error on the defenders' part.
"There are more tracks here," Stark said as he crawled forward cautiously. "Turning off the road, heading northeast"
"Why?" Roran asked.
"I'm no diviner," Stark replied. "Northwarder, do your auguries tell you?"
"I sense only a dangerous presence in this castle and beyond."
"We should head back," Brand shuddered. "Tell the Drangleicans what we know."
"We know nothing," Gunnar replied. "Onward. We follow these tracks."
They led far around the castle and down a steep slope beyond the outcropping. The land here was much rockier than the southern farmland. The incline was scattered with boulders and gravel. The Forossans descended carefully. Twice, a stray foot triggered a stream of tumbling rocks, and they all froze, expecting arrows and ambushers to strike from the dark. None did, and so they continued, more cautious than before.
At the base of the slope, Gunnar gave the sign to halt. He pointed ahead. In the moonlight they saw a human figure leaning against a leafless tree. It was facing away from them. He nodded to Thrandor. The warrior crept silently as death toward the lookout and wrapped his hands around the person's neck. There was a brief struggle, and the figure went limp in Thrandor's arms.
Then Thrandor looked more closely at the corpse, dropped it and jerked back as if struck. He turned and ran back to the others.
"Thrandor," Gunnar hissed. "What is the meaning of –"
"Hollow," Thrandor breathed.
The single word incited terror in all their hearts. A Hollow. An Undead. A harbinger of the Curse. The rulers of Drangleic had been wrong all this time. It was not rebellion that had driven this land to cease paying its taxes and shun all communications. It was overcome by mindless Hollows. It had fallen to the worst of all fates.
"We leave," Gunnar commanded. None argued.
They hurried up the rocky slope, intent on warning the second party and returning to the safety of the camp.
The clouds closed together, darkening the moon's light and casting the land in grey darkness.
From where the second Hollow came, Gunnar could not guess. Perhaps in their hurry and fear they missed the creature stalking them. Perhaps it had been lying hidden behind a boulder all along. The wretched thing in shredded rags rose suddenly from the shadows and opened its jaws wide. It cried out, a long, raspy moan that somehow carried across the night air with the strength of a trumpet.
Stark aimed his crossbow and loosed a bolt. It struck the Hollow in the chest, cutting off the scream. It lingered on its feet a moment, then fell backwards and lay still. But everyone knew Hollows could not be truly killed. It would rise again soon.
Behind them, somewhere in the inky darkness of the northern fields, another scream answered the first. And another. And another. It was followed soon by the rumbling of many feet rushing towards them. Many hundreds of feet making the ground shake.
If Gunnar could have seen the horde, if he could see the enemy coming for him, it would have been a greater comfort. He was no stranger to staring death in the eye. But to see nothing, to only hear the sound of the implacable enemy's approach in the black night … That was terror even to a veteran.
He turned to his men and shouted one word.
"Run!"