XV. First Patrol
It comes as no surprise that the Alexine Walls became so famous in so short a time, and Sarfan—which by now was one of the largest villages of the Plains—thrived from the new attention. Once a small backwater in the fringes of those lands, Alexius's village grew in prosperity and in numbers, and as travelers and traders alike began to take note of the newfound greatness of Sarfan, its name became known to more and more.
Many, such as Ifrin of Eura, later revered as Francis the Confessor, praised the Walls of Sarfan, declaring that "Heaven has blessed the great stones of the battlements, and blessed are the defenders of the innocent." And indeed, many villagers fleeing destruction at the hands of Pillagers and the undead alike flocked to the gates of Sarfan, seeking protection from its sturdy walls. They were welcomed with open hands, and refugees from as far west as Branvel and as far south as Djer came to the village, bringing families, plants, animals, books, strange languages, and professions. Very quickly the Walls became full of new houses, their walls merging with the stone fortifications, and more houses had to be built outside of the Walls.
Some of the men of Sarfan grumbled about the sudden influx of newcomers, but their qualms generally disappeared when they realized the potential for new trade. The markets of the village thrived, and within the passage of two moons, the name of Sarfan was associated with opportunity and growth throughout the land. And all revered Alexius, Axe of the People, who had encircled the great village with impenetrable stone barriers.
If the Emperor took note of this, he did not record it. He must have been preoccupied with the question of Pillagers; for with the increased attention to Sarfan came the increased risk that the Pillagers would take notice of the village and attack it. He must have known that the risk grew day by day, as more and more people streamed to the Walls, seeking shelter and prosperity. He must have known that Sarfan was a beacon—for villagers and Pillagers alike.
Perhaps it's what he wanted. If so, he got his wish.
A tap on Alexius's shoulder: "Pillagers coming from the west," Nerev whispers. Alexius looks up at him, and the Weaponsmith's face is grim.
In the cramped Council hall, the flickers of the candles cast dancing shadows onto the faces of the other five. Virod looks uneasy, Ramaf terrified, Hava Yal worried; Spayer stares at the wall, stony-faced and somber. Even stoic Arter looks around nervously, his eyes darting between the rest of them. In front of them, the representatives of Market Hane—Alexius has already forgotten their names—sit uncomfortably; they don't know what's going on, and they don't like it.
"How many?" Alexius whispers back. His fingers drum lightly on the table as he fights to show nothing on his face.
Nerev looks like someone delivering a death sentence. "Five."
"No ravagers or evokers?"
"No witchmen. It looks like a patrol. We see them every once in a while, but..."
"From the west?"
"Right."
"Who do we have there?"
"Yeful and Azel, plus a few volunteers from Lourault."
Alexius frowns. "Volunteers?"
Nerev nods: "They have their own crossbows. We already have all the arrows we need—two stacks regular and one stack tipped, as you said."
"And you're sure there's only five of them?"
"Only five, as far as I could tell. Ten minutes until they get to the gate, I'd say."
Alexius sits back and nods to himself. "Good."
"I wouldn't call it 'good,' Alexius."
"Mm." He looks back at the delegates from Market Hane, who fidget in their seats and look at each other questioningly. They'll love this one, no doubt. He'll give them a treat for today.
Alexius looks back up at Nerev, who frowns at him. "Bar the Western Gate," he tells him carefully. "Ring the bells of the Ajor—make sure everyone goes home—slowly, you understand? We can't have a rush in the morning. And make sure everyone outside gets in before they cross the Mer... oh, and break the bridge if you can. Understand?"
Nerev nods. "We'll go up to the gate soon," Alexius says. "Make sure nobody panics... get everyone away from the Walls."
Nerev starts, then pauses. "Should we tell them that there are Pillagers outside?"
Alexius stops to think. "No," he says. "Go now." He waves his hand, and Nerev bows slightly before rushing out of the room. The Market Hane delegates crane their necks to watch the man run to the spire of the Ajor.
One of them—Veusha the Librarian, is it?—starts to speak up almost indignantly. "What was that?" Alexius waves the question away and turns to the table smiling: "It is nothing of our concern. Do not worry, sirs, I assure you."
"That isn't—" They all jump when they hear the first peals of the bell, ringing clearly through the village. Outside, they hear the bustle of the first morning traders stop, replaced by panicked whispers and murmurs. Nerev's booming voice rings out from the spire of the Ajor: "Everyone inside now! Go to your houses and block your doors—and stay away from the Walls!" More bells begin to ring in earnest throughout Sarfan, and the villagers, some screaming in panic, hurry to their houses. The air is filled with the sound of rushed footsteps and doors slamming shut.
Veusha the Librarian whirls around back to Alexius: his old eyes are panicked, too. "What's going on? Are we under attack?" he asks in a loud voice, straining to make himself heard over the din outside. Alexius remains still, and the delegates talk over themselves in anger and fear. "If you've done something to—" "Where the hell is—" "Some kind of attack—"
"Sirs," Alexius shouts, "sirs—people!" He slams his fist on the desk and papers fly into the air. They all stare back at him and he forces himself to smile. "Let us assemble at the Western Gate."
And, looking outside, he adds: "I have something to show to you all."
The first recorded Pillager interaction with the village of Sarfan comes early in history, where a patrol, sent under the reign of Lord Raukonautan of the West Mansion, came to the village as part of a sweep of his claimed lands of the Plains. Such patrols were not uncommon in earlier eras, as part of the customary land-searches under the reign of the Pillager Lords, though they were extremely rare by the time of Alexius.
Multiple eyewitness accounts have survived detailing the incident, called the First Patrol Incident by future historians. Anywhere between five to fifteen Pillagers came to Sarfan in the morning days, seeking to plunder and ravage. What they thought of the Walls, which they had undoubtedly never seen before, remains unclear.
Getting to the Western Gate was easy: the streets, which are normally packed with travelers and traders and merchants and crates and horses and donkeys, lie deserted in the morning sun. All the doors are shut and barred; all windows are blocked with banners and furniture. Sarfan lies silent, almost as if abandoned. Not a soul dares to venture outside his house.
The only voices come from the meek protestations of the Market Hane delegation, a mix of indignation and terror, but they, too, are silenced once Alexius, leading both the Council and the delegates, comes to the entrance to the turret. The cramped staircase spirals upwards, and they feel for the rough stone walls which become red bricks towards the top. No one speaks: the implication of the danger outside is clear. They all know what's there.
At last they reach the top of the Western Gate: from here the spire of the Ajor looks radically different, the houses below look distant, and the Plains stretch before them as the rising sun beats down on their backs. Slowly, deliberately, Alexius leads them behind the crenelated ramparts, and they stand together warily. "Get down low, everyone," he murmurs, and they squat down, their backs to the taller ramparts.
Standing, the Emperor walks over to the middle of the arch, where Nerev is waiting for him with a spyglass in his hands, his face grim as ever. Spayer and Hava Yal follow him, where he stands accompanied by the archers, some fiddling with their bows, others carefully loading their crossbows. They whisper to each other in low voices and they look bleakly out towards the horizon. Their faces are inscrutable.
Nerev nods to Alexius, bowing slightly to Spayer and Hava Yal behind him. "Both doors are locked and barred," he says to Alexius. "Everyone living outside has been evacuated. They're taking shelter in the Ajor." He yawns slightly before pointing back to the western horizon. "There—you see them?"
Alexius squints, standing atop the broad keystone, and looks out towards the impossibly flat horizon. Five gray Pillagers are moving towards them slowly, almost leisurely; one of them holds a gray banner with a menacing face painted on it. They march with loaded crossbows. Alexius shudders slightly: it's his first time seeing a Pillager.
So they've finally come, he thinks to himself. Poor fools...
He turns back to the archers, who stand uneasily. "Use the tipped arrows only in an emergency," he says, pointing to a barrel full of them nearby. "Take cover behind the battlements—the parapet will protect you from the arrows they fire. Lie down if you must." He looks back to the patrol outside: he can make out their faces now. "Only fire when I tell you to." And, as an afterthought, he adds: "Try to aim for the head."
He stands tall and tries to breathe slower, Spayer to his right and Hava Yal to his left. He glances at the delegates, cowering behind the parapet and whimpering; one of them prays under his breath, another tries not to weep. Alexius shakes his head and looks to his archers. He nods to himself. They're ready.
He looks forward and is surprised to see his own silhouette on top of the pool of shadow the Western Gate casts. The Pillagers are unsure of what to do and advance slowly. One of them steps into the shadow.
Nevertheless, it can be safely presumed that the Pillagers were equally awed by the Walls, if not terrified of them. In facing these great ramparts, which would be tried by siege and fire time and time again, it is obvious that this patrol never stood a chance.
At the head of the patrol is the Captain, who hoists his banner above his head and takes out a smooth, curved horn. It makes a terrible sound when he blows into it, stout and low. A shiver runs down Alexius's spine when he hears it; he looks to the delegates and sees them all tremble and moan with fear. Idiots, he thinks. One of them looks up to him, his face lined with fear: "You've killed us all, you madman, you fool, you've killed us—"
"Quiet," Alexius says sharply, and looks back to the patrol. He can see their eyes now: they dart back and forth between each other, and the patrol stands unsteadily, slightly hesitating as if silently arguing amongst themselves. The Captain brings out a piece of paper, clears his throat, and reads in a jarringly guttural voice:
"Raukonautanmaer z'Hâloste ürdzer, z'Erist zens nâms, dümer on z'Dânkvevaelts, zverd on z'Dovs, med un Vôchtrîten..."
He trails off into silence when he sees the confused faces on top of the gate. Even from a distance, Alexius can vaguely understand the patrol group's confusion: now they're murmuring to each other, their tones inquisitive and their slate-gray faces marked with unease. The Captain gestures to a crossbowman next to him, who merely shrugs. The patrol looks to the Captain, then to the Walls, then to the Captain again. Hesitation everywhere.
How, Alexius wonders, are they so feared? From above, this tiny group of five looks like a mere flock of animals, sheep without a shepherd, looking lost and befuddled. It's obvious that the Walls threw them off guard: they don't know what to do. Some of the delegates begin to peek over the ramparts. The archers look to Alexius, equally unsure of what to do.
Alexius turns to the delegation: "Does anyone here know how to speak their language?" Slowly, they all shake their heads. He sighs; he was expecting more, to really show them something. But without a way to communicate... no point dragging this out, he says to himself.
He nods to the archers. "Kill them all."
The bowmen hesitate for a split second, their arrows nocked. Then they turn to face the patrol and stand up straight, aiming directly at the group of Pillagers, which stands almost impossibly still. Down below, the Captain's eyes widen.
Regardless of the reason, this first patrol was quickly disposed of, and disappeared from the records of the Pillagers.
The arrows fly and trace beautiful arcs through the air for a moment and land thump thump thump thump thump directly into the patrol. One of the Pillagers is killed instantly and crumples to the ground, his body disappearing in a puff of smoke; another is knocked back screaming, clutching his shoulder; the Captain staggers back and trips. His fluttering banner almost falls to the ground before a wide-eyed Pillager, yelling in panic, throws himself to the earth and catches the gray fabric.
The uninjured ones, clearly taken by surprise, stumble backwards while hastily loading their crossbows. Too late: the rising sun renders them sightless, and they blindly fire their arrows, which fly wildly and bury themselves in the bricks of the Walls. The delegates throw themselves to the ground, whimpering, and yelp as the Pillager arrows harmlessly land in the stones with a thwack. The archers duck and quickly reload before firing another volley, this time between the gaps of the ramparts—two more Pillagers collapse and their corpses disappear in smoke. The Captain hauls himself to his feet and sprints away, closely followed by his companion.
"Crossbow," Alexius mutters, and Hava Yal, with his good eye, aims a loaded one, squinting and adjusting the bolt's trajectory. With a twang he releases the arrow and it flies in a graceful parabola westward, and the Captain falls not fifteen paces away from where he stood. The last remaining Pillager doesn't even hesitate to check on the Captain, who quickly disappears in a cloud of vapor; he only slows down to pick up the banner, careful not to let it touch the ground, before sprinting again.
Alexius grabs a spyglass and zooms in on the last Pillager, who manages to get ten more paces before he collapses and howls in pain. He crumples to the ground and his legs start twitching violently as he desperately tries to lift the gray banner above his head.
Alexius looks quizzically at one of the bowmen, a southerner from Djer, who shrugs, holding a green-tipped arrow. "Poison," he explains. "Slower."
"Mm." Turning to Nerev, who stares at him like the first day he came to the village, Alexius says, "Everyone can come out now. It's safe." He looks back at the delegation, who now peer over the parapet, their eyes wide. They can hardly close their mouths. The old librarian looks like he's seen a ghost. "You..." he says.
Alexius nods. "I told you not to worry," he says. And, beckoning to his Council, he walks down the tower, leaving the wide-eyed delegates behind, who all of a sudden cannot seem to remember how to speak.
Though it was merely a patrol of five Pillagers at the least, the village of Sarfan considered this a great victory, for they had never seen a villager force triumph over any Pillager as far as they could remember. Alexius declared to the people that, from that day forth, Sarfan would be the bastion of the villager against the enemy, and declared three days of feasting, where food was handed out for free; and the whole village was astounded by this great victory, and became much encouraged.
From the Walls they can hear the peal of bells again, slowly brought up by the sound of first talking, then cheering, then joy. A triumphant Sarfan basking in victory. Alexius looks behind him and smiles before he continues across the Plains, through the tall grass and the flowers. The Council follows close behind, now ebullient. They look at Alexius with awe and celebrate, laughing and smiling. "Finally!" Hava Yal shouts, to which Virod replies, "Those dogs finally got what they deserve!"
"You saw their Captain? He ran, didn't he, tail between his legs—"
"—never thought I'd see the day—"
"—rotting in the Nether with their demon fathers—"
They come to a small heath full of poppies and dandelions and stop. In the center of the field lies the last remaining Pillager, bathed in sunlight and muttering frantically under his breath. An arrow oozing green poison sprouts from his thigh like a tree, and his legs still twitch vaguely. His gray face, half buried in the dirt, looks up to the six of them desperately. The banner is strewn across his chest and his arms are locked around its pole; it looks like a shroud.
"Fathers," Ramaf whispers. They all stare at this dying man silently. When Virod begins to murmur a prayer under his breath, touching his forehead while he chants, Spayer stops him. His eyes are hard set and dark.
Alexius kneels down in the grass and looks carefully at the Pillager's eyes, and the man whimpers as he mutters faster. "Who sent you?" he asks him. A blank stare. "Rau—Raukonau..."
"Raukonautan," the man whispers. He begins to speak louder, frantically spewing his last words out: no one understands them. Alexius sighs deeply and stands up, drawing his sword. Spayer notices and moves towards Alexius: "Don't, let me do the—"
The iron flashes as it buries itself deep in the Pillager's abdomen, and he grunts, contracts, twitches violently before going limp. The body disappears in a wisp of smoke; the villagers instinctively cover their noses and mouths with their hands, taking care not to breathe in the vapors of the dead. The banner falls to the ground with a thump.
Alexius crouches and picks up the banner. Gray with a face design on it. He hoists it up and walks back to Sarfan, where the bells continue to ring. The Councilors follow him silently. They didn't know that victory would feel like this. They say nothing.