Danger
"We have to start working on a strategy immediately," Torleif says firmly as he looks around the group of men surrounding him on the small height. In the minutes after the slaughter in the marked square, he was quick to take control over the situation and gather a few chosen people as his council. His time as a soldier in the previous war and the following experiences made him a natural choice as a leader in the village's current predicament and people instinctually respect his words and trust his decisions.
Matthias still feels a bit dazed, but he pays close attention to every single word spoken by the group, still surprised that Torleif chose him to join in with the select few. Most of them are older than he is by several years, have some degree of reputation amongst the villagers, and were the ones to take charge in the market revolt, but Torleif made sure to include Matthias and Berwald both, claiming they showed their worth on the battlefield and leaving no room for discussion on the subject.
"We probably have a bit of time before the king finds out what have happened here today," the butcher says carefully as he cleans blood off one of his knives with the corner of his apron. "We killed all the soldiers that came here, and they will certainly not be missed in any other village. Even if one of the soldiers managed to escape, it him several days to get back to anybody and tell them what happened, and then it will take several more days to gather forces enough to get revenge."
Torleif nods thoughtfully in agreement. "We should still be careful though, and stick closer together from now on if we can. Everybody that lives on the smaller farms outside of the village should take up rooms in the tavern tonight, just in case something is to happen despite our belief it will not. I do not want anybody left without protection." Torleif's voice is firm, letting them all know that nothing they can say will make him change his mind. "The king is no ordinary man. He has his way of finding out when something happens in his kingdom, and for all we know the soldiers that came here could belong to a larger group and just split out to search different villages and then meet up later. We should not linger in Griven any longer than we have to."
"If the soldiers that came here was a part of a bigger group, then we have to assume that there are other villages receiving the same treatment as us." Matthias mutters darkly, finally finding his voice again.
"That is true" Torleif replies with a grimace. "There are probably many other smaller villages like ours that the king is willing to sacrifice to keep his army well supplied, especially here on the outskirts. All the big town and cities lie closer to the capitol and those are the ones with any value if captured by an enemy. Those are the ones he will protect, even if that means sacrificing a few people and even towns on the edges of his kingdom."
"Then it should be our priority to get to the other villages and warn them about the soldiers," Matthias reasons, still a little hesitant among the older men. "If we really want to defeat the king then we will need every man we can get, and the other villages are the only places where we can recruit enough people actually make up a real army, nobody from the center cities is ever going to listen to us."
"You are absolutely right," The butcher says, "but I still think planning can wait for tomorrow. This has been an exhausting day and there are some things that should take priority today, like Sigurd." He pauses, takes a deep breath, and looks toward the bottom of the hill where the body is lying, covered with only a cloak to shield everybody from the sight. "He deserves a proper funeral."
One of the other men swallows heavily. "We have to get rid of the other bodies as well. We can't just leave them out in the open like this, it is not right. Not only will they start to smell, but if someone is to come here and notice a pile of dead bodies in the streets, there is no hiding what happened."
Torleif nods yet again in agreement. "We can get a cart and dump them somewhere in the forest outside of the village and burn them there, keep them a little bit away from the village. Before we do that though, we should salvage as much of their armor and weapons as we can. I don't think too many of us have the proper equipment for a war."
"You can't be serious," one of the other men present says in horror as he makes a grimace. "You want us to take things from the dead? There must surely be something else we can do to prepare ourselves."
"It is far better than letting good gear go to waste," Matthias interrupts quickly. "Torleif is right; most of us are just simple farmers. We cannot meet the king's army with whatever gear we got lying around our homes. Knives and scythes won't do shit against armor, and our clothes won't protect us from any kind of weapon either. Unarmed we are no threat to anyone and it's not like the soldiers have use of their weapons anymore."
The man still looks disgusted or disturbed by the thought of having to go through the belongings of dead men, but he does not speak up in protest again, probably realizing it is for the best of everybody, but his jaws looks tense as if he is grinding his teeth together.
"There is not going to enough weapons for all of us, I can tell you that right now," the butcher comments idly as he inspects the knife he was polishing to make sure there is no blood left on the blade. "There were what, 30 soldiers, 40? We are going to need a lot more weapons if we want to arm people from other towns as well."
They all stay silent, deep in thought until Berwald clears his throat carefully, having been silent in every discussion up until this point. "We have weapons in the forge," he mutters quietly, and everyone turns to look at him. Most of them appear surprised to hear Berwald speak at all, the smith's apprentice mostly known for speaking only when necessary. "The king placed and order on weapons in spring to prepare for the coming war and we have worked on it all summer. The guards would probably have come to the smithy to collect them when they were done in the square; they just never got that far."
"That will certainly make a difference!" Torleif's entire face light up and he grins broadly, suddenly eager to plan a proper rebellion. "We have a lot of work ahead of us, and we should get as much as we can done before sunset. The tavern is the largest building around, I say we make that our base and bring whatever weapons we can find over there so we can take inventory. We have to clear out these bodies as well," he grimaces at the bloodied square. "They will stink up the place if we leave them too long, so let's get started."
The small group disperses and head off in different directions to give orders and instructions to the rest of the villagers. Matthias lingers a little longer and Torleif gives him a questioning look. "Something on your mind?"
"I was wondering if I could take care of making the grave for Sigurd," Matthias says hesitantly. "He meant a great deal to me, helped us out when my father passed you know, and he tried to help me out when the soldier grabbed us; I wish to do this last thing for him."
Torleif looks at him with sympathy and nods in understanding. "Of course," he says gravely and places a heavy hand on Matthias' shoulder. "I hope you know that Sigurd's death was not your fault, no matter what that soldier told you. The only that deserves any blame is the king himself."
Torleif leaves him after that, and it takes most of the day for Matthias to dig a grave all alone. Several of the villagers comes by and offers him help, but he turns them down every time, wanting to do the work by himself and have some time to deal with his thoughts from the day. The afternoon sun beats down on his back, sending sweat streaming down his neck to soak up in his shirt and the dirt he kicks up while digging clings uncomfortably to his clothes, skin and hair.
He chose an open patch of land just outside the village for Sigurd's final resting ground, a peaceful spot off the used pathways in and out of Griven, placing him in a spot where his spirit can keep an eye on the people entering and leaving the city.
From the chosen spot, Matthias can see the other villagers lead an open wagon along the main road towards the forest and sometime later, he can smell the foul stench of smoke rising from the burning of human bodies when the wind turns in his direction. The smoke and the dirt make his eyes water and his throat sore and itchy just from breathing and he tears his focus away from the pyre and back towards his task.
Berwald is the first person to approach him when the grave is deep enough for a proper burial. By that time, the fire has mostly run its cause and the smell of smoke is beginning to fade in favor of the fresh smell of autumn air. He does not say a single word but waits patiently by the side of the grave as Matthias continues to shovel out dirt without a single glance at him in acknowledgement, a constant and silent show of support.
When Matthias finally throws aside the shovel, content with his work, Berwald is there immediately, offering him a hand to help him out of the grave. "The other villagers are mostly done in the town square; they were waiting for you to finish with this." Berwald's voice is quiet and careful. "We all want to say our goodbyes to Sigurd."
Matthias nods as he accepts the extended hand and climbs out of the grave. He lies down on the ground with a sigh of exhaustions as he stares up at the rapidly darkening skies above him as night approaches. "After my mom died, I hoped I would never have to dig another grave again," he almost chokes on a sob he has spent the entire day suppressing and when he speaks, his voice comes out thick as porridge. "Why does it feel like this might just be the first of many more to come?"
"It is too late to turn back now," Berwald replies seriously. "At least we have chosen to fight for ourselves and not sit around waiting to die when the soldiers eventually return."
"That is true," Matthias replies, but the words fall flat as he has a hard time believing them himself.
He stands up and brushes off the worst of the dirt and ash from his clothing. From the village, they can both hear several footsteps coming their way and they look up to see a funeral procession for Sigurd. Torleif is walking first, leading a horse pulling an open wooden cart behind it. Looking at the number of people, Matthias can only assume the entire village is following in a line after the wagon, even those from the farms on the outskirts of town. When they draw closer, Matthias can hear a sorrowful hymn carried on wind as the people sing out their grief for a fallen friend.
Matthias and Berwald steps back when the procession gets closer to make room for the wagon. In the back lies the body of Sigurd, carefully wrapped up in a white cloth and resting on a bed of colorful autumn flowers. The hymn ends and silence wraps around them all, heavy and constricting.
Four men begin the task of moving the body from the wagon and lower it carefully in the grave. They all have similar looks grim determination, none wanting their grief to show. One man in the crowd is biting his lip to the point of bleeding rather than breaking the facade of calm and several women attempt to hide their sobbing behind the sleeves of their clothing.
Once the body is placed in the ground without a single word uttered, the men step back into the crowd. Torleif steps forward then besides the grave. In silence, he takes the time to gaze over the people gathered, responsibility laying heavy on his entire being. The people chose him to be their leader in battle, and that means he must guide them all, not only through battle and victory, but through the following hardship and losses as well.
"We all knew Sigurd," Torleif starts carefully, voice deep and somber. "He was a man we could always turn to for advice and a helping hand. He always fought for what was right, and today he proved that beyond any doubt. He stood up for justice when nobody else had the courage to do so. Today, that cost him his life, but in return he saved all of ours."
Torleif takes a moment of silence to let his words sink in and lets his gaze roam over the gathered villagers again. He kneels down to pick up a fistful of dirt from the pile besides the grave. When he stands back up, he holds his clenched fist of dirt over the grave for all to see. "Sigurd was a hero," he croaks as emotion break free and cracks his voice. "That is how I will always remember him."
He opens his fist and lets the dirt fall, then steps back.
Matthias follows Torleif's example and steps up to the grave to pick up his own handful of dirt. "Sigurd was like a father to me," he says firmly, fighting to keep his voice under control. "When my own father died, he made sure I had enough to eat and he never turned me away when I needed someone to talk to. I will always be thankful to him for that." He opens his hand to let the dirt sprinkle down and add another thin layer atop the white fabric wrapped around the old man's body.
The next man to step up is tavern's owner and to Matthias' surprise, the burly man has tears streaming freely down his cheeks, unashamedly showing off his grief, but puts on a strained smile when he lifts his own handful of dirt. "Sigurd always knew what people needed to move forward in life," he begins. "Some men just need good advice. I on the other hand, needed a firm boot to my rear and a sound scolding." A few people laugh weakly only to choke up moments after.
"I used to be nothing but trouble back in the day," he continues. "Thanks to Sigurd, I learned a trade and built a business that I can be proud of. Rather than mourn Sigurd's death, I think we should celebrate his life. Tonight we will feast for memory in the tavern, and the drinks are on me!" He tosses the dirt on the grave and steps back, wiping at his face and sniffing loudly.
Torleif steps up to pull him into a strong hug and pats him heavily on the back in comfort. When Torleif lets go, he receives several more slaps on the back as he takes a place in the crowd again.
With the first and hardest words out of the way, more villagers step up to add more dirt to the grave before they make their way back toward the village. Some that have known Sigurd for longer, say a few words, and slowly but surely the crowd thins out.
When only a few people remain around the grave, Matthias makes a grab for the shovel so he can close it up, but the blacksmith is quicker, snatching it away before his eyes. He then shakes his head calmly when Matthias gives him a questioning glance. "You have done your part here, I will take care of the rest," he says calmly with a weak but sympathetic smile. "However, if you still want something to do, I would appreciate it if you could help Berwald bring the last of the weapons and the few pieces of armor we have in the shop to the tavern instead. If you are quick you won't even be all that late for the feast."
The blacksmith pats his apprentice on the shoulder with his free hand and Berwald gives him a nod in return, accepting his given task.
"If I know our beloved tavern owner correctly then the others might have already managed to empty at least one barrel of beer already, if not more" Torleif cuts in loudly, with surprising cheer, a man preferring not to linger on tragedy but live in the moment. "There is surely more to follow, so you boys should hurry up. Just place the equipment in the backroom when you get there, we'll divide it all tomorrow." He gives them a grin and shoos them away.
Matthias glances over at Berwald who shrugs and then leads the way back to the village and Matthias goes after him. Behind him, he can hear the first shovels full of dirt dropped into the grave and quiet conversation between Torleif and the blacksmith which fades quickly as they walk away.
They walk past the market square where the villagers have done a great job hiding all evidence of the earlier slaughter. The bodies are all gone, and somebody seems to have gone over the area with a rough broom to cover up the blood with a layer of sand and dust. There are still some smashed up remains from the broken booths and crushed fruit lying on the ground as a reminder to those who know what happened, but it no longer looks like there was a battle in the square.
On a normal day there would be smoke rising from the smithy and the constant sound of hammering metal from early morning to late evening, but now it is dark and eerily quiet as the flames of the forge died hours ago. Berwald leads the way with sure steps and opens the door to the store section of the smithy and lets Matthias enter first.
Inside it is dark and cold; a small window on one of the sides provides only a little light now that the sun is close to setting. There is a large desk where the smith barters with his customers, and large shelves stocked with most things a small town might need along the walls. There are scythes for the fields, horseshoes, and axes for chopping wood, hammers and an entire bucket full of nails of various sizes. There are a few smaller blades meant for hunting, some bows and a stack of arrowheads, but nothing really seeming suitable for a war.
Berwald seems to notice how his gaze roams around the room and clears his throat to draw Matthias' attention. "The king's order of weapons and armor is in the back," he says and points the way toward a door behind the desk. "We should pick up those first and then we can gather up the smaller things here on the way back."
Matthias nods absentmindedly, but Berwald does not take notice. He is already on his way to the back door, fishing a key out of his pocket to unlock the door.
"One would think the king had enough by now," Matthias mutters darkly as he follows Berwald through the door and catches sight of an entire crate full of crude swords. "He has planned this war for two years or so, and he still has smiths from smaller villages produce more?"
Berwald hums in response. "We don't really question our orders, especially not when it comes from the king."
Matthias picks up one of the swords from the crate to inspect it closer, but the weight and feel of the weapon makes a memory flash before his mind of how he ran a blade through the commanding soldier and he drops the blade as if it just burnt his hand, sending it clattering against the others in the crate. "Is this all of it," he asks uneasily. He wipes his hands against his tunic, feeling as if there is still blood on his hands.
"There are a few more," Berwald replies as he heads over to a shelf and picks up a different sword. This one shines brightly in what little light remains and shows off the much finer make and quality. He turns around and offers the blade to Matthias. "Here," he says. "This one is the best one we have, do you want it?"
A shudder runs through Matthias just at the thought of touching the sword and Berwald lifts a curious eyebrow at him. "I don't really think a sword is something for me, I'll find something else in here if you don't mind."
Berwald nods again, understanding dawning on him and he places the fancy sword in the crate with the others. "I might have something else actually," he mutters thoughtfully, pulling out his sets of keys again and heads for a locked chest in a corner.
That catches Matthias' attention and he tries to catch a glimpse over Berwald's shoulder, but has little luck looking past broad shoulders of a man who has worked in a forge every day from the day he became strong enough to hold a hammer. "What is so special you need to lock it up in an already locked room?"
"I think it was a special order from some officer back in the capitol," Berwald replies and turns around with a large double bladed axe from the chest and holds it up, resting upon his open palms. "If you don't want a sword, then maybe this will do?" Matthias' jaw drops in amazement the moment he sees the weapon, and reaches for it with shaking hands.
The axe weighs a great deal more than a sword, but switching it from hand to hand, Matthias admires how balanced it is with such a heavy double blade on one end and another steel attachment on the other end to help counterbalance it. The wooden handle is perfectly smooth under his fingers and the metal dark and shiny, with decorative engravings and a message in old runes running in the middle of the blade. "You can't be serious?" he gasps as he runs a finger along the writing on the metal. "This is way too much."
Berwald shrugs. "You were the one to take down that commander. If you ask me, you have more than earned your first pick of the weapons we have." He rummages around in a drawer and pull out a shoulder strap made in soft leather. "Here, take this as well, then It'll make it easier to carry when we travel. Now help me with the rest of the weapons."
Matthias cannot stop himself from grinning as he admires the axe one more time before he fastens the axe with the shoulder strap and lets it rest against his back. "Let's do this. Do you guys have a cart or do we need to take several trips?"
Berwald shakes his head at Matthias change of attitude, but does not call him out on it. Instead, he brings out a second crate; this one filled with armor and pushes it into Matthias' hands. "We are going to be carrying crates for a while," he replies gruffly and picks up his own crate, heading for the door.
It takes them a few trips to bring all the items they consider useful to the tavern, where they stack them in a back room like Torleif instructed. Each time they unload another haul at the tavern, the noise from the feast seems louder than the last time and judging by the cheerful voices, the tavern owner has indeed been generous with his supply of alcohol, and people are in high spirits, doing their best to forget the horrors of the day.
When they finally finish bringing all the crates to the tavern and the open the door to the main room with the drinking hall, a wall of noise greets them. There is barely room to move around in between the number of people crammed together in the dining hall that not built with this many people in consideration. The owner is with them almost before they even manage ten steps inside, he is red fazed either from the heat of the room or the alcohol in his system, there is no telling. He gives each of them a bright grin and hands them a large mug of dark brown ale before he disappears in the crowd once more, singing parts of a drinking song and yelling out and order for more ale.
"A toast to our freedom," one man suddenly roars out above the crowd in a thick slur as he climbs his way up on a table, spilling ale on everybody around in the process. Not that anybody seems to mind, with the amounts of alcohol they have consumed themselves. "And another one, in memory of our fallen friend, Sigurd." Most of the crowd raises their own glasses, cheering loudly, embracing any reason to empty their glasses.
"I also suggest we cheer for our fearless leader, Torleif," The man atop the table yells next, swaying a little on the spot, but several hands help push him back to help him stay balanced. He points somewhat straight towards the end of the room and Matthias follow his pointing and notices Torleif standing over by a stack of ale-barrels lifting a newly filled tankard of ale up in the air as a toast before he empties it all to the encouraging cheer of the crowd.
"And then another toast for the slayer of the commander!" Another man in the crowd roars. "Matthias, hero of the market square, where are you?"
Matthias does not even have the time to react before several hands push him forwards, screaming out that they have located the hero and force him up on a table in the middle of the room. He barely manages to cling on to his drink in the process and stares out at the sea of people. They are all staring right back and they yell compliments that mostly drowns out in the general racket and he has no idea what to do with so much attention aimed at him.
"Drink!" somebody yells.
"Drink!" the rest of the room echoes and soon the order becomes a chant, and that is one order he feels perfectly comfortable listening to without complaint. Matthias lifts his tankard to the roaring of the crowd and lifts it to his lips, tips his head back and drains the tankard in several large gulps while the chant grows increasingly loud around him, people stomping their feet and hammering tankards against the table for more noise. The ale sooths his dry throat and he can feel heat pool in his stomach from the alcohol and it creeps up his neck and a face as well in short time.
"More ale for the man!" someone yells and before Matthias can say or do anything, he can feel another tankard pushed into his hands and he takes a few sips, enjoying the taste and waiting for the intoxication to spread through his body, grinning madly at the people, finding he quite enjoys how they cheer at him.
All his worries soon drown in the pleasant haze of alcohol. Hours pass and then somehow, somebody hauls him upstairs to dump him on a bed in one of the rooms upstairs when he becomes so drunk he can no longer stand upright. He blurrily remembers demanding his new weapon be brought along and he leaves it right next to the bed on the floor, when the people kind enough to make sure he gets some proper sleep leave him alone.
It only takes him seconds to fall asleep when his head finally hits the pillow.
Sleep is not kind to Matthias that night.
One moment he is lying on a soft bed, but in the next, he finds himself lying on and uneven surface feeling cold, wet and surrounded by a suppressing darkness. It all seems very real; he can the feel dirt and roots underneath his fingers and the heavy moisture in the air. He tries to look around, but it takes him several moments before his eyes grow used to the darkness and he realizes there are trees surrounding him in every direction. He stands up and realizes that the earth underneath him looks freshly turned, much like a grave, and Matthias' stomach churns uncomfortably.
He looks for any way out of here, when he notices the shadow of a man appearing just in front of him, slowly gaining stronger contours and Matthias' breath hitches when he recognizes the commander he killed earlier in the square.
The shadowy figure appears to be muttering something, but Matthias is unable to catch the words at first the shadow commander keeps mothing the words over and over and drawing closer to Matthias who desperately shuffles backwards to get away and finally he catches the words. "You did this, this is your fault!"
Matthias' breath leaves him in harsh pants as his backwards shuffle leaves him with his back against a tree. The commander keeps moving forward, chanting the whole and then he starts bleeding. Blood runs from his nose at first, then from his mouth and with every word he repeats, there is more of it pouring down his face. His hand lifts and he points accusingly at Matthias. "You did this!" he snarls, the words garbled from the blood that pours out form his mouth.
Matthias eyes follows the direction of the pointed finger and ends up staring at his own two hands only to realize they are clutching on to a sword that is covered in dark red blood that is dripping onto the ground below him. He drops it as if it is burning hot and it clatters to the ground, but there is blood on his hands now and he stares at them in horror.
Before him, the shape of the commander gurgles up more blood as he laughs cruelly and then fades from vision.
"Danger," a whisper sounds over the sudden silence after the fading commanders laughter dies out.
Matthias spins around trying to locate where the sound came from, but sees nothing. "Who's there?" he yells, but his voice sounds faint and hollow.
"Danger." This time the whisper echoes several times before it dies out and seem to come from every direction and Matthias spins around on the spot. This time he notices a new shadow, partially hidden among a cluster of branches, but as soon as he steps forward to find out who it is, the shadow takes off with a rustle of leaves and Matthias has no choice but to follow.
"Stops!" He yells after the figure, but whoever it is keeps on running, Matthias chasing for dear life, ignoring the branches grasping and clawing at him. His clothes are torn and there are scratches over his arms, but he keeps running until his foot catches on a root and he tumbles to the ground and crashes into the heavy trunk of a tree.
Confused and with his head spinning, he looks up to see the shadow standing a few meters away with his back to Matthias. When the person turns around, he finds a pair of eerily familiar blue eyes staring emptily out into the air ahead of him.
"It's you?" Matthias whispers in surprise and disbelief when he realizes the figure is the stranger he noticed in the marked square.
"Danger," the person says, this time loud and clear and his eyes suddenly snaps to Matthias' baring such intensity he stumbles back again under its weight. "You're all in danger, they are coming."