Chapter 6

In the morning, with daylight barely beginning to creep through, Qualtan sat quietly in the inn. He played with the scroll that would grant him an audience for knighthood, idly rolling it from side to side. He licked the sides of his moustache, weighing his thoughts. Ghuls! He had never encountered one before, save in the books of his study at the School and from the tales of visiting warriors meant to frighten his sleep. Surely, the King of Turinthia would be willing to wait. A knight helps those in need. The equation was simple enough. Upon reconsideration, he could understand Glaive’s fearful disinterest. He had no right to press him. Glaive’s focus was purely survival, and revenge. It was not fair of him to expect more.

Even Huel had looked at Qualtan with dread. “Cuthbert is no place for a man of your station, sir! You will find little of value there! To face the undead…” He had shaken his head sadly, rubbing a small pendant that lay in his burly chest. “Years ago, back in my campaigning days, I was part of a company of soldiers returning from a raid on some thieving orcs that had snuck into our lands. We had brought back our dead for proper buryin’. One night, I went to honor those that had fallen. A good many lads that had been loyal comrade-at-arms had been put to earth, in the graveyard of our village, and I missed them dearly. I was kneeling before a marker, paying my respects, when I heard it. Breathing, loud like a dragon, with a breath that stank of death. I trembled with fear when I saw a long, bony head peer out from behind a headstone. A ghul! I was sure of it! Its eyes were clouded white and its tongue flicked in the dark … a tongue longer than any lizard’s! I was paralyzed with fright! It cocked its head to one side as if it was curious, sensing me. My hand was tightly wound ‘round my pommel, but I dared not move, hoping it would not take notice of me. It hissed savagely, and I closed my eyes for a moment, praying to the gods I would be overlooked. When I opened them again, it was gone! I must have sat there for some time, terrified to move. Eventually I did, and I ran back home. Though no one saw the beast ever again, I never returned at night to that place. Leave Cuthbert to its own misery, milord, it’s not worth it.”

Eventually the three men re-appeared, seeming relieved that Qualtan was there. Perhaps they had assumed he had changed his mind and fled, the young warrior thought. Qualtan escorted them outside of the inn, and left to retrieve his horse. He was not completely surprised to find Glaive there, sitting cross-legged on a small bench. He smiled at Qualtan, his fangs flashing in the smoky beams of the sun that found their way through cracks in the walls.

“Well?” Qualtan said, somewhat amused.

“We are going to die, and unpleasantly at that,” Glaive said.

“I have more faith than that,” Qualtan replied.

“Have you? Have you really?”

“I do.”

Glaive sighed mightily, slapping his hands on his thighs. “I guess I’m as mad as you.” He jumped from his perch, and quickly walked past Qualtan, pulling a horse from the stable. “Well don’t just stand there, then. Lead on!” he said. Qualtan guffawed in joyful surprise.

The three men stared at Glaive. As one, they turned to Qualtan who quickly saddled his own steed.

“I thought your friend was not joining us?” asked Frederick.

“His friend is, despite knowing better,” Glaive growled.

It took them seven days and seven nights to pass the borders of the Woodworm Ports into the reaches of the Gladed Forest. Unlike the Darklight Forest that jealously guarded the arteries of Flotsam’s End with its eerily lit trees, the Gladed Forest was full and green with great elms and maples that grew to impressive size. Lush and deep, it spread out for many leagues before crumpling into haggard weeds and bleached crags at the foot of the Burnt Hills, which at one time had been the crown of the forest. Many made use of the forest, which made travel dangerous once the roughly trodden roads disappeared into its vastness. Expeditions would occasionally be sent by the Merchant Lords and other city-states that bordered the forest to clear out gangs of brigands, or worse, that sometimes grew large in its hidden comfort. Despite the deer that scampered about and the squirrels that busily burrowed their wares, the small party remained vigilant.

Rudolpho navigated for the group, leading them to a rising slope littered with abandoned hunting shacks as the sun began to set. Lighting lanterns, they made camp in one of the shacks that still maintained a solid roof and locks on the door. They settled into the night, Glaive insisting he keep watch from a broken window. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted mournfully. A large, furry shape shambled past their lodging, drawing concern until it revealed itself to be a juvenile bear shuffling by. Mikas showed their progress on crudely drawn maps as they unwrapped hard bread and dried meats for a rough dinner.

“You risked much, traveling so far,” Qualtan said, reviewing the journey they had marked on the maps.

“We have brought weapons with us. Farmers we may be, but we can protect ourselves,” said Mikas, as he showed Qualtan a small short sword he carried beneath his tunic.

“Not against what you brought us for,” Glaive said, eyeing the sword doubtfully from his position by the window.

Frederick nodded. “We have been lucky, praise Cuthbert. There were others sent before us that did not return.”

“They probably grew smart and fled to seek safer havens elsewhere,” Glaive responded.

Qualtan quickly interrupted the barb. “I, too, come from a small village, probably not much different than yours.”

“Then you must understand more so than your friend why we have taken this risk,” Rudolpho stated. “It is our home. Simple, fragile, we give twice the effort to receive the smallest of gains, but we are happy there. In time we will build and grow. Cuthbert risked all in bringing our people there to guide them. The fields, through his blessings, thrive and nurture us. We have wives and children, all of us. It is for their futures and the legacy of Cuthbert that we strive so much. How could we abandon our home?”

“How indeed?” Qualtan said, eyeing Glaive who merely shrugged and returned his focus to keeping watch.

Hours passed. The five travelers bathed in a nearby stream and dried themselves in the midday sun. They veered eastwardly and at the forest’s highest point the trees swelled high around them in an undulating sea of green. Eventually, the tree line began to grow thin, weakening in its hold upon the land. Large leaves of bright jade grew yellowed and browned. The ground became parched, sandy, and dry. Husks of fallen trees lay collapsed like overturned soldiers. Whirls of swirling dirt rose to greet them. The trees at last died out as they entered the skeletal valley leading into Cuthbert.

Days later they descended, sliding and tripping over declining hills of rock and pebble. Glaive made a pained expression. “So this is what you expect us to fight for? A valley of dust and wind?”

Rudolpho laughed. “So it seems, but see for yourself!” he said, pointing to the ridge just ahead.

Looking beyond a ring of grayish rock, even Glaive had to pause in disbelief. Below the ridge was an oasis of burgeoning vegetable plots, fruitful trees, and gardens bursting with plenty. In stark contrast to the grim reminder of the Dark Ones that surrounded it, the village of Cuthbert flourished with stirring life.

“Impossible!” Glaive declared as they moved closer into the town.

“How can this be?” Qualtan asked, awed at the sight.

The three men who led them beamed with pride. “It is through the blessings of Father Cuthbert. He sanctified the land for our use. This is why we refuse to leave. The soil is precious here.”

Villagers tending to their harvest paused and rose to gaze awkwardly at the strangers. Rudolpho waved to the onlookers. “Success, my friends!” he cried out. “You are the first to return!” a villager yelled. Crowds of people rushed to greet them, surrounding their horses, reaching out to touch the legs and feet of Qualtan and Glaive. Qualtan felt slightly embarrassed at the attention as the villagers assisted them off their horses.

“I apologize. Everyone is excited, as your presence here gives them hope! We must take you to our mayor,” Rudolpho said.

Qualtan could see now how small the town of Cuthbert truly was, probably less than half the size of Littlebig. Houses were crude and small, save for a large, wood hewn church at one end of the town and a brick laid tower at the other. A large stone well was at the town’s center where children played and women hoisted buckets of water. Some of the younger townsfolk raced ahead of them towards the tower the group was approaching. Villagers struggled to touch the strangers, jostling with one another in the attempt. Rudolpho, Mikas, and Frederick attempted to keep order with the crowd.

“Feel accepted yet?” Qualtan asked, as Glaive was nearly pushed to one side by an overly excited group of townsfolk eager to reach out to him.

“This is more affection than even an orcne could tolerate,” he replied sarcastically.

As they reached the tower, Qualtan could see its dilapidated state. Misplaced blocks and cracked mortar attested to its age. A face appeared at one of its upper windows, disappearing quickly to reappear at its brightly painted doorway. The mayor of Cuthbert (if such a title could apply here), withdrew from the entrance. She was a strong-faced woman of stout shape, with tightly wrapped hair in a tasseled bun. Her face was tanned and lined from many years of harsh labor. Her black eyes were sharp and keen.

“Mistress Welda,” Rudolpho said, and as he did, he, Mikas and Frederick bowed. “We have found two willing to lend us their arms!”

Welda inspected Qualtan and Glaive, eyeing them critically, hands on hips. “You don’t look like a mercenary, although I can’t say the same for you,” she said, looking over at Glaive suspiciously.

“My name is Qualtan, son of Eucradus, nephew to Aurelus. This is Glaive.” The half-orc crossed his arms in defiance.

“Are you a knight?”

“I am to be.”

“Aye, you look rich enough for it. And what about you?” Welda said, standing before Glaive.

“What about me?”

“Since when do those of orcish blood companion knights? You look more thief than soldier.”

Glaive drew himself up to his full height.

“Thief I am, and proud of it. Still, when your peasants came mud sucking for aid, we offered it. Truly more so him than I,” he said, gesturing to Qualtan.

“You thought our need unworthy?”

“No, I find your manners unworthy, which befits this beggar’s town. Shall we leave?”

The circle of villagers gasped at the exchange. Rudolpho paused nervously, unsure of what to say or do to defend their selection. Qualtan, however, merely smiled at the parrying as each sized up the other.

Welda locked her gaze with Glaive’s. A broad smile split across her face, and she nodded approvingly.

“You’ll do. You’ll do nicely.” Welda pointed to Mikas. “Show our honored guests to the home afforded them. Bring them to me after they have rested. We are honored by your presence here. You will dine on Cuthbert’s bounty tonight!” The crowd cheered, patting and shaking the newcomers’ hands as they were escorted into a small cottage. When Mikas informed them that the owners of this place had given up their lodgings temporarily and moved in with relatives for the duration of their stay, Qualtan quickly objected at the sacrifice. Mikas and the others, however, insisted. In fact, the owners made themselves known from the crowd, letting Qualtan and Glaive know with no uncertain terms that it was a great honor for them to be their hosts.

Later that night, they were brought to Welda for an evening repast. At her dinner table, they sat before a large painting of a mustachioed old man wearing a large, green bonnet. He held a voluminous book in his gloved hands. The name Father Cuthbert was emblazoned just below it. Welda herself was cooking their meal, along with her three daughters. Aged tapestries adorned the crumbling walls, while flitting candles wafted in the breezy chamber.

“Forgive me, kind sirs, especially you, Glaive, for suffering under my doubts. You must understand; one must be careful with strangers, especially those found from the Woodworm Ports, regardless of type. Our humble folk could attract cutthroats seeking to do us harm as well as noble men seeking to help,” Welda said as she and her daughters rushed in and out from the adjoining kitchen with plates full of soups, fruit, and cooked vegetables.

“No offense taken. We understand your need to be wary,” Qualtan said.

“Yes, especially with faces like mine!” Glaive added, to the laughter of all.

The serving of the meal was at last complete, and Welda, along with her daughters, joined Qualtan and Glaive at the table to eat.

“These are my three daughters: Deliah, Melissah, and Meritha.” All three curtseyed in turn. Deliah was the oldest, taller than the others with long, blonde hair and eyes that matched her mother’s. Melissah was the second oldest, her hair shorter and darker, still a youth near past fourteen winters. Meritha was the youngest at ten winters past, her blonde/brown hair bundled in curly locks.

“Another of our volunteers, Barth by name, has sent word he too has been successful in his search to find aid,” Welda said.

Glaive observed her and matched her against the painting of Father Cuthbert. “Your eyes match that of his. Are you related?”

Welda smiled. “Your eyes are keen. Yes, he was my father. This was his house where his family dwells still. By his blood, I am caretaker of this township and its people.”

“Have you a husband?” Qualtan asked, as the two youngest daughters had to be restrained by Welda from throwing peas at one another in jest.

“Dead these many years since. He was killed by bandits.”

“I’m sorry,” Qualtan said.

Welda quickly moved on to the issue at hand.

“What have my loyal Rudolpho and his companions told you of our plight?”

“Your daughters…?” Qualtan pointed out, unsure if they should hear this particular conversation.

“Thank you, but my darlings are made of sterner stuff. They know full well what is upon us, isn’t that right?” Welda inquired of her daughters. All three grimly nodded their heads. The youngest, her dark eyes matching that of her mother’s, made clawing movements with her hands. “Ghuls,” she said, her eyes bulging with fear.

“Yes, Ghuls. Our crops that attract other invaders are left untouched by them, for every few nights they come to besiege our town. Those that fought back at first paid dearly for it, until we realized what we faced. We lock ourselves up tightly now, and endure the long hours of pounding and clawing and scratching at our doors and windows until the sun returns and they flee. They have grown larger in number and more aggressive in their attacks. Poor Listah and her family, alas!” Welda paused for a moment, the sadness of the memory briefly overtaking her. “Melissah, take Meritha upstairs and fix her hair, will you?”

“But Mama, there is nothing wrong with my hair!” Meritha insisted.

“Upstairs with you both and do as you are told or there will be no crème and strawberries for dessert for either of you!” Welda ordered.

Melissah sighed and, rolling her eyes, dragged her younger sister by the arm. “Come on, Meritha. Its time for elder talk again.”

“But I am an elder!” Meritha complained as Melissah escorted her up a flight of stairs to the slam of her bedroom door.

“Nothing was left but bloodied robes,” Deliah said grimly. “Their doors were smashed in and none were left alive. We have brandished walls of flames to keep them at bay, but they have grown too sure and no longer stay away.”

“But why do they attack, and where do they come from? Your man said he thinks the dead from an old battle have come back seeking revenge for their unburied bodies that were left to languish in the sun,” said Qualtan.

Welda nodded as she refilled their cups with drink. “Many think the way he does. But that was long ago, and truly, we did them no harm—we did what we could. We do not know. Their first attack was deadly and fierce, killing many of our workers in the fields as well as their livestock. They do come from the cemetery, of that we are sure, for we have tracked them in the day and have found the burrows they have dug.”

“Another question, then. How do you grow such plentiful crops in this dead soil?” Qualtan asked.

“Our lands were blessed by my father. He prayed to the High Lord for succor and his wish was granted,” Welda replied, matter-of-factly. Qualtan looked to Deliah and she smiled, nodding in agreement, her eyes fixed on his.

“Blessed soil wouldn’t attract creatures hot from hell,” Glaive mused aloud. “Ghuls are half alive and half dead. They are either cursed into their existence or created, and with all due respect, this town doesn’t seem worth much centered in a dustpan. No wizard would create ghuls to send them here to steal greenstalks or overly-sized fruit!”

Welda glared at him. A thump on the stairwell above them brought the diners’ attention.

“Hey, both of you! Back to your rooms! Or a broom to your bottom you’ll be receiving!” Welda cried out angrily as Melissah and Meritha quickly vanished from the spot they had secretly occupied on the stairwell and dashed to their rooms.

“You two are a novelty here. We seldom receive visitors. They are curious, of course,” Welda said, laughing at her girls’ cheek. “But back to your questions, it will be up to you to seek out the answers for all of us. But I worry if it will be enough. Swords can do little against those that do not live! I wish at times I had my father’s abilities! I learned from him the art of healing and the strength and fortitude given through prayer, but he truly had the blessings of the High Lord that worked through his hands. Though I lead this town as well as being its spiritual leader, I can do little more than the rest. I am truly at a loss,” Welda said, wringing her hands. “Your uncle, I have heard his name. He was involved in the Great War, was he not? A wizard of some sort?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes. He led the Alliance to victory against Those That Stand in Shadow.”

“I assume his powers could not be called upon?”

“They could be, I would think. However, he is many leagues away from here.”

“Of course,” Welda said rather dryly. “We need magic to face magic. I fear you can do but little, despite your good intentions to help us.”

Qualtan smiled. “We carry more than mere steel.” He removed his sword from its sheath, its slight humming noticeable in the silence. “This sword was carried by my father in the Great War, now given to me. It was forged by magic and IS magic.” At his command, the sword began to glow, gently at first but brighter and brighter until the room was illuminated with unearthly light. “This light is the light of Good—no undead can stand its fire. We will help you rout this devilment and root out its source.” Slowly, the light dulled until the blaze of power was no more. Welda stared at him with newfound hope. Her daughter smiled at him, her eyes never having left him during the course of their conversation.

“You are truly a knight come to rescue us!” Deliah said.

“I didn’t know your sword could do that,” Glaive said, as both he and Qualtan reclined in their new quarters.

“It can do much.”

“Like burn the hands of those that dare to touch it,” Glaive said, licking his fingertips and quickly poking at the pommel of the sword. An immediate sizzling sound was heard and Glaive speedily retracted his fingers, smarting at the slight contact.

“And what of yours, then, your firing gauntlet?” Qualtan asked, as he called his sword to his hand, putting the weapon away.

“I developed this along with our Order’s master craft smith. It’s a series of spring loaded compartments, you see, that rotate and load a mini-arrow into place for quick firing. This is basically a miniature crossbow with faster firing placement, deadly when coupled with the appropriate skill,” Glaive said, removing the armament and tossing it to Qualtan who curiously reviewed it.

“Deadly and crafty, this is. You would think this was dwarven work,” Qualtan replied, tossing it back.

“Bah. Dwarves aren’t the only ones with ingenuity and craft!”

Qualtan smiled, rolling to one side of his cot.

“That Welda’s daughter couldn’t take her eyes off you, did you notice that?” Glaive teased.

“I noticed.”

“With all the dusty and dirty laborers in this town, along with their holy beliefs, she must have seen you as a messenger of the High Lord himself with your golden armor and glowing sword!”

“Enough with that!”

“Hah! Best treat her gently or you may find yourself bringing her and her mother along with us to Tringolm!”

Qualtan threw a feathery pillow towards Glaive with enough force to knock him off his reclined pose. Glaive threw it back, and Qualtan caught the missile with ease.

Glaive’s brow furrowed. “Your sword, Qualtan, can it really turn back the undead?” he asked.

Qualtan tugged at his moustache, gripping his grizzled chin. “Its light is a nether light from beyond our world. It can light a darkened path or blaze with a glory to blind. Its power stems from that which is opposite of the evil that animates these fiends. It can do probably enough to keep them at bay. Beyond that, I do not know.”

“I jest with you now, but I still feel the same as before. We should not fight the dead. We should not be here,” Glaive said.

“There are others coming,” said Qualtan.

“As if that will help,” Glaive said. “I imagine a gang of drunken muggers who will bolt once their heads clear!”

Qualtan shrugged.

“Are you not afraid?” Glaive asked. Qualtan looked up, assuming he was asking another acerbic question. But he could see the earnestness of his face and the real fear in his eyes.

“I do not know,” Qualtan replied softly. “All I know is that I should be here to help.”

Glaive nodded. “Just like that, eh? Well, I guess I will have to accept that … for now.”

The following morning, the mercenaries arrived, sixteen in all, a ragged band of ex-soldiers and free-booters. They had already rested during the night at the cottages chosen for their stay, and now they filed into a large, musty reception chamber within the town’s church. Qualtan and Glaive, as well as many of the townsfolk, were already in attendance. Qualtan observed them from a separate table as they were served breakfast by a variety of volunteers. The mercenaries were rowdy and boisterous, slapping backs, shoving shoulders. Their leader was named Trunkhoel. A large, red moustache hid his lips. His flaming hair was wild and free. Bulging blue eyes stared out from beneath bushy eyebrows. Tattoos of protective charms adorned his arms. His shirt was worn and dulled, while his pants were gaudily striped in purples and blues, ending in great bunches around spiked leg guards and metal-soled feet. Loudest of the bunch, he cried out for more food, knocking over a bowl of sweetened porridge with his arm, spilling it to the floor.

“I don’t like them,” Deliah said, a look of disgust on her face. She sat across from Qualtan and grimaced as one of the men hurled food at another. “Like reckless children,” she added.

“Ah, they aren’t so bad. Your people need some bravado,” Glaive said, splitting an apple with one of his blades.

“How do they look to you?” Rudolpho asked Qualtan as he joined them, balancing a plate in one hand and a young child in the other.

Qualtan shrugged. “I haven’t dealt with mercenaries much. We’ll have to wait and see,” he said, eyeing the group’s leader.

Welda, the final member of their table, sighed and rose. “As long as they can fight, they can help.” She approached the men, asking for silence from all.

“I am Welda, caretaker and leader of Cuthbert, named for my father. I thank you for your journey here. As my brothers and sisters here know, we have long suffered with this peril that assails us. You do us great honor with your aid.”

One of the newcomers snickered, receiving a stout elbow to his side from his giggling companion. Welda took notice of the interruption with disapproval but continued.

“The ghuls come every few nights. They attack in greater numbers and grow less fearful. They batter doors and pull at doorknobs. They strike our windows and jump over rooftops. Walls of fire seem to be the only weapon to keep them at bay, but they are learning ways to bypass our defenses. We know they come from a massive graveyard…”

“Yes, yes, we know all of this.” Trunkhoel rose, waving Welda away in mid-sentence. He walked over to her, facing those in attendance. He raised his pants up by pulling at the large leather belt that encircled his waist, and crossed his arms defiantly. “We’ve been told you are scared, afraid. You have lost loved ones, livestock, and most importantly, your freedom. You have come to us and now we have come here. We have faced the undead. We have faced armies. We have faced dread. I tell you this—this game they play with you is at last over!” Some of the residents cheered at his words. Trunkhoel pulled at his moustache and strolled about the room.

“You see my man over there?” Trunkhoel said to one shy farmer, pointing to one of his comrades. “That is Orthello. He sliced a ghul once into so many pieces with his great ax, he had to throw them all away! You see that man, the ugly one with the scars?” He directed attention to another of his men.

“To hell with you!” Trunkhoel’s comrade laughed back at Trunkhoel.

“That is Magin. He has seen more battles than I have years. He’s torn more men in half than I can speak of. Are you afraid of ghuls?” Trunkhoel challenged him.

“They will soon learn to be afraid of me,” he retorted, as the other mercenaries whooped.

“Hah! See!” Trunkhoel said to the crowd, eyes bulging.

“But ghuls are undead—they cannot be killed by any weapon of man!” a youth said.

Trunkhoel stared at the challenger. “Smart lad! Indeed, you are correct! The dead cannot be killed by the living. But sure steel can deprive them of their heads, their legs, and their arms! You have fires? Hah! We’ll make a fire pit, all right, and toss them into it! We will trap them and we will burn them all back to hell!” Other townsfolk began to cheer.

One woman stood up, her hands clasped at her lips. “Oh mighty warriors! My husband was killed when they first attacked our town. May Father Cuthbert bless you! Bless you all!” she cried out, as others echoed agreement.

“Milady, you will have peace AND revenge! You see that man?” Trunkhoel said, pointing to yet another mercenary. “That is Brok, who looked into the eyes of a vupyre and survived! He has no fear of ghuls and neither shall any of you now!”

Glaive rolled his eyes. “The man should sell in the street markets with stories like that.”

“What is a vupyre?” Deliah asked.

“A vupyre is an undead that drinks the blood of the living. Their stare can stiffen any who catch it. They are very powerful creatures, but very rare, if real at all. They are encountered more in tales than in life,” Qualtan replied.

“Ugh! How many shapes do the dead that do not stay buried take?”

“Not many. As Glaive had said before, they are either forced into their state as penance or made thus by evil beings.”

“Is he finished yet?” Glaive asked.

Trunkhoel returned to the head of the meeting room and raised his arms wide. “My friends! From this day forward, let the ghuls fear you! Let the ghuls cower in their holes! You take back what is yours today!”

The crowd roared in response as Welda attempted to regain control.

“He works the crowd well, I’ll give him that,” Glaive said. “We’ll see how much they stand by their swords.”

“I don’t like him,” Deliah repeated.

“Do not worry. We will keep an eye on him, just for you,” Qualtan said.

Deliah smiled sweetly, drawing her eyes fully to his. Her face turned red, and she turned away. With her foot, she nudged Qualtan underneath the table before rising to remove her dirtied plates. He watched her as she left to stand in line behind other townspeople who were dropping off their dishes at a large bench. As if sensing his stare, she turned around and smiled back.

Rudolpho was struggling with his child as his wife came by to assist.

“She is very beautiful,” Qualtan said to Glaive, as his eyes lingered on Deliah.

Glaive merely shook his head. “Pathetic,” he said.

The next few days were filled with activity. Windows were reinforced, fences raised, and doors secured. Without knowing what to truly expect, the assorted warriors had agreed upon repairing the township’s prior defenses and laying in wait to observe and take note. Qualtan assisted Trunkhoel in carrying beams of wood to fortify a gaping hole in a large barn.

Trunkhoel motioned for them to stop and take a break. They braced the wooden beams against the side of the barn wall. Wiping the sweat from his face, he walked about, stretching out his back with a groan. He observed his men giving orders to the townsfolk, as they ran to and fro. “They are like lambs ripe for the slaughter! Look at them! So used to their simple ways, so easy to command. It’s no small wonder they have been attacked. I’d have done the same myself!”

“You’ve fought a lot of undead, have you?” Qualtan asked, with eyebrows raised.

Trunkhoel smiled at Qualtan, sizing up his question. “Undead are like unthinking beasts. You hunt them, you trap them. Then, you dispose of ‘em, and your problem is solved. If these farmers put their backs to it, we will solve this problem and be off. Or better yet, we should stay. Wouldn’t be hard ruling over these ignorant folk, eh?”

“Perhaps, if you are looking for offerings of apples and carrots,” Qualtan said.

Trunkhoel laughed, wiping his bulbous nose. “Aye. There is nothing here—peasants!”

“So why did you come?”

“Eh, a free meal with a few coppers is good enough for now. Not much to do nowadays. No wars to fight, and the roads are too well guarded these days; not many to rob from there.” Trunkhoel smiled evilly at Qualtan, looking to gauge his reaction. Getting none, Trunkhoel continued. “And what of you then, you and your friend? Good deeds for a knight, saving the poor and all that?”

“Heh! Perhaps you could say that.”

“So I thought. And your orcne servant?”

“He is no servant. He is my friend and companion.”

“Odd friendship, wouldn’t you say? A knight and a half-orc? His type should be with me and my boys instead of lording it up with the likes of you.”

Qualtan smiled, refusing to play Trunkhoel’s game. “You think so?”

Trunkhoel nodded, gulping cool liquid from a water skin he carried on his belt. “I know so. Orcs are orcs, half human or no. Maybe you haven’t traveled much outside of courtly rituals and parades, but…”

“My family has dealt with orcs, in the Great War, amongst others. Their ways are known to me.”

Trunkhoel clicked his cheek, spitting to one side. He didn’t much like Qualtan. Considering himself a free man, he didn’t like rules and authority, especially so-called knights that followed supposed codes of honor. He considered them pampered fakes and charlatans, pretending to be so much better than everyone else. The fact that this particular knight traveled with a half-orc merely confirmed his suspicions. His attempts to strike at Qualtan’s veneer so far had failed, but he hurled one final volley.

“Never fear, friend. People like you and me, we need to watch out for each other here. I can teach you quite a bit. I’ll keep an eye on that sneaky half-orc for you.”

Trunkhoel watched to see if Qualtan would show any signs of anger. The warrior merely looked back, smiling, and reached towards their wooden pile. As if the fool can do it by himself, Trunkhoel thought. Suddenly, with little effort, Qualtan hoisted the entire timbered stack, effortlessly balancing it in his arms.

“Well? Are you done resting?” Qualtan said as he walked into the barn. Trunkhoel stood dumbfounded at first, and grumbled before following him in.

After the work was completed, Trunkhoel quickly left him to “assist his boys in getting things done.” Qualtan was happy to be rid of his presence. He found him to be an irritant, and his continual attempts to goad him were beginning to wear thin. He felt Trunkhoel was a braggard, and wondered if he needed to worry about his true intentions for being here, whatever they may be. Walking towards the center of the small town, Qualtan came across Deliah, who was preparing large urns filled with water for the children of the town to distribute to those toiling on repairs. She beamed when she saw him approach. Holding a wooden cup, she rushed over to him, offering him a drink.

“How go the preparations?” she asked, as Qualtan drank his fill.

“Thank you. It seems to be going well. Everywhere there is a jumble of activity!”

“My mother is pleased so far,” she said shyly.

“What do you think? Will the attack come soon?” he asked her.

She furrowed her brown eyebrows. “Yes. They come every fourth or fifth night. They will be here.”

“And we will be ready for them! This first night we will watch and wait, but when they return, they will find some surprises waiting for them!”

“And what of the others? The mercenaries?”

Qualtan smiled. “I just had the opportunity to work hand in hand with their leader, Trunkhoel. A clown and a blaggard, but his men will have their use. They work as hard as the rest.”

A brief silence overtook them, and they stood awkwardly staring about. Finally, Qualtan spoke.

“I hope I am not taking you away from your duties.”

“No, not at all. I have been instructing the younger folk of Cuthbert to supply and aid their parents. There is not much else left to do this day.”

Qualtan stared at the full fields that seemed at odds with their bleak surroundings. “I still find it so surprising. To see those gardens, those trees here, like an oasis in a desert.”

“Then come! Let us see them closer!” she said.

Deliah led Qualtan into the fields and they followed a short path that wound through the trees, plants, and gardens that burst with so much abundance. Deliah laughed and scampered about, pulling a heavy fruit that was twice its normal size from an overreaching branch and throwing it towards Qualtan.

“Your grandfather was powerful indeed to erect such a spell,” Qualtan said, biting into the sweet fruit.

“My mother has always wished she could have been blessed with the abilities my grandfather had been given. When he lay dying and passed the stewardship of Cuthbert to her, I think she had hoped his powers would also have been passed to her, but they were not. She pushes herself hard because of this, I know. She prays each morning and each night in a prayer room our grandfather used himself. She leads the town’s spiritual needs with weekly prayers at our church gatherings. Her strength gives the town its strength. That’s a power to hold, is it not?”

Qualtan nodded. “Yes, it is. The power to lead as she has shows she is worthy of your family’s name.”

“She preaches as my grandfather had—the world is not safe, but we are safe here. These fields will forever nourish us, and eventually our town will grow.”

Qualtan paused to touch a large bundle of twisted vines where giant vegetables swayed. “My village is also small. Our fields grow high, yet are not so blessed as yours. We live with dwarves who share our town and with traffic and trade we grow, yet maintain our distance, so to speak.”

They sat on a small bench as Qualtan inspected one of the vegetables in his hand.

“Yes! And that is what we want for our own home!” Deliah exclaimed. “I know we need some help from the outside, and our produce sells well when we travel to other places to sell and barter. But my mother tells us there are many that would take advantage of us, and steal or take away our precious fields if we are not careful with who we do business with.”

“Turinthia works together with us, offering routes of trade and protection, but leaving us to our own,” said Qualtan.

“Can Turinthia help us?” Deliah asked, her eyes large as she looked up at Qualtan.

“I travel there. If I ask, perhaps they will.”

“You are not like the outsiders my mother always warns us about. You are kind,” she said, her eyes flashing downwards as she played with her long hair.

“Did your father warn you about outsiders as well?”

“Yes. He was a gentle man, a farmer like most of the people in Cuthbert. My mother, even then, was highly respected by the townsfolk because of her position, and he followed her lead in all matters for he recognized the strength of her character.”

“I am sorry he was killed,” Qualtan said, gently touching her hand. She stared at his hand for a moment, and then gripped it gently.

“Men from the outside attacked us, as the ghuls do now. They had passed through here, on their way home from a long journey, or so they had said. Their real intentions showed through eventually, for they came back with many more, attempting to steal and take our fields from us, after we had shown them such kindness! We eventually defeated them, and the rest fled, but not before my father was killed in a battle with them, defending our town.”

“I can understand your suspicions about outsiders like me then.”

“I have no suspicions about you. You are not like Trunkhoel or the others. You are a knight!”

“Not yet. Until then, I could be as untrustworthy as Trunkhoel.”

Deliah laughed, pushing him away. “You are not Trunkhoel!”

“We both have hair on our lips!”

“It is not the same! His is ragged and bushy; you cannot even see his lips, which I am thankful for! You have prettier eyes, blue eyes. And a noble face,” she said, staring intently. She moved closer. Qualtan was unsure—should he dare to kiss her? There had been few girls back home that he had shown interest in. Sometimes during festivals, merchants would pass through Littlebig with their families, and girls his age would join in dance and merriment. One girl in particular he had become very fond of, as her merchant father had rented a home in Littlebig for nearly a year. If he could have called those first awkward feelings that they had shared love he would have. Unfortunately, the merchant family eventually left and their attempts at sending letters to one another slowly wore away. Then, of course, there was Elizabetha. She had always been his best friend, but their kiss had confused him. He leaned forward, but they were interrupted by townsfolk who were looking for them.

“Deliah! Your mother calls for you!” one of them said.

Realizing what was about to occur, Deliah and Qualtan smiled nervously as a group of farmers joined them. Sighing, they rose with a laugh to join the others.

The sun began to set. As it did, the townsfolk crowded before the looming shadow of their church. Torches were carried high, and anxious stares focused in the direction of the faraway cemetery, resigned to the fear of the coming night. Welda stood on the church steps, intoning from a holy book. Some of the people closed their eyes as they took in her soothing words. Others held their hands in mutual apprehension. Qualtan and Glaive stood to one side together with Trunkhoel and his men. Glaive crossed his arms and sighed annoyingly. He looked to Qualtan and nudged him.

“Words of blessing will do little to stop what comes tonight,” he said.

Qualtan looked out towards the direction of the cemetery they had yet to see, and nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid you are right. They have no power to call upon here.” A handful of Trunkhoel’s men began to push and shove one another in boredom, but to Qualtan’s surprise, Trunkhoel admonished them to be silent.

Welda completed her readings and the townsfolk bowed in unison. She walked into the crowd, encouraging those that seemed the most fearful with a strong grasp and an uplifted chin. “Brothers and sisters, have faith this night. Our newfound friends will lead us out of this time of tribulation. Have faith!”

She made her way to Qualtan, looking to him and the rest. “The repairs have been made. We will soon retire to our homes to wait out the night. Are you ready?”

“We are,” Qualtan said.

Trunkhoel nodded in agreement. “This will give us a chance to see what happens next. We will watch and observe. When they return, our reprisal will be great! My men will be scattered throughout the town at their designated stations.”

“Everything is prepared. Doors have been strengthened, windows barricaded. The barns have been fortified; the animals will be safe,” Qualtan said.

“Do not fear, lady. All is in hand!” Trunkhoel said. Welda frowned.

“Then the long night begins,” she said.

In silent procession, the crowd began to break, with families shuffling back to their homes. Deliah stood with her sisters as Welda joined them. She paused and glanced nervously at Qualtan, who smiled warmly in return.

“So where will you two be hiding, eh?” Trunkhoel asked.

“We will be guarding Welda and her daughters,” Qualtan replied.

Trunkhoel whooped. “Ah, keeping the old Queen, eh? She will be safe regardless. We’ve bolted down the town good enough. We’ll tally the beasts, size them up, and ready them for the slaughter the next time around. They’ll make a mess of things tonight I’m sure, but if any of them try to break in, my boys will give them reason to think twice! I would say you two aren’t even needed here.” He smiled at them.

Glaive snickered and walked up to Trunkhoel. “You have two men stationed out past the town, don’t you?”

Trunkhoel sneered. “Of course. They’ll be well hidden and unseen. They will warn us of the ghul’s approach, letting us know firsthand what approaches from this so-called cemetery.”

Glaive moved closer to Trunkhoel, their faces barely apart. “Ghuls scent by the blood and heat of living things. They will be the ghul’s first meal on their way here.” He smiled fiercely, and then stepped away, joining an amused Qualtan as they walked towards Welda’s tower. Trunkhoel stood perplexed, puffing in angry surprise.

“Heat? You lie!” he called out to them. Glaive merely shrugged in response. Cursing loudly, Trunkhoel yelled out to some of his men to seek out their two spies and have them return to town.

Qualtan and Glaive laughed. “They know nothing of fighting the undead,” Glaive said.

“And how do you know so much?” Qualtan asked.

“Work for a rich merchant lord in the filth of Woodworm and you learn a lot of things. I was with one of Thule’s pirate ships when we came across an isle that was full of ‘em. A buccaneer burial site that was cursed by evil beings! Surprised we made it out of there alive.”

“You’ve led a colorful life.”

“I have indeed! You can learn a lot from me.”

Qualtan laughed. “Trunkhoel said nearly the same.”

“Hah! Mark my words, those bandits will flee when the sun rises in the morn!”

The night was still. The only sounds made were those of insects and posted torches crackling in the wind. All other lights had been dimmed. The sky was clear, with stars that shone brightly. Inside their cottages, children huddled in their beds while their parents watched the outside world from slits between boarded openings. Qualtan and Glaive sat on a feather-stuffed bench, eyeing the town from tears in the beams that crisscrossed the first floor windows.

“Idiots,” Glaive muttered as some of Trunkhoel’s men scurried about outside, rushing from one location to the next. “They don’t figure out where to settle in, they’ll be gracing a ghul’s supper plate before the sun comes back.”

“Still angry with me for coming here?” Qualtan asked, half-smiling at Glaive.

The half-orc arched an eyebrow, grinning back. “I’ll let you know when the ghuls come to play.”

“You’re a hero here, to these people, you know.”

Glaive gave a sardonic look. “Bah. A hero to some addled peasants in some forgotten little village next to nowhere. I doubt any songs written of me here will travel far.”

“They look up to you—I saw you leading and directing groups of villagers during the repairs. They listened to your every word. And now you stand with me here protecting them in the night.”

“You think I care?” Glaive asked.

“I think you do.”

“You see what you wish to.”

Qualtan persisted. “It may not be the Company of the Dartful Hand, but you still…”

Glaive waved him off. “If here they knew of my past, I would be strung up along with the ghuls while they sang hymns from their holy books.”

“Suspicious to the last, eh?” Qualtan mocked.

“Indeed! It’s saved me more times than not in the past, and will save you too if you ever get your head out from the clouds.”

They laughed, sharing in the mirth. Mistress Welda suddenly appeared alongside Deliah, carrying candles to light their way. They brought mugs of water and platters of food for the guardians of the tower.

“Anything?” Welda asked anxiously.

“No, nothing. Not yet, at least,” Qualtan responded.

“They will come. It will be soon, now. Here, this is for you to keep your strength up during the night.” Welda offered the platter while Deliah set some of their candles near them.

“Trunkhoel seems to have done his job,” Qualtan said, thanking Welda as he pulled sliced pieces of apple with some nuts from her plate.

“Indeed. I’m rather surprised that he has. I had worries about that one,” Welda said. “I will be observing from the upper chambers. My daughters do not fare well during these nights. Are the signals in place?”

“Yes. If any of them break through, the alarms will be sent.”

Welda nodded. “Then there is nothing more to be done. Deliah?” she said.

“I would like to stay here for now,” Deliah responded shyly. Welda took her in, and briefly glanced towards Qualtan, her eyes narrowing with a hint of disapproval. She did not air her thoughts, though, and acquiesced. “You are safe here. Join us later, then. Do not stay up late. Again, my thanks to you both.” She bowed to Qualtan and Glaive before leaving them alone.

Deliah nestled in closely near Qualtan, who said, “Your mother is very strong.”

“She is. She will not let out any doubts for fear of troubling my sisters and me.”

Glaive blew out the candles Deliah had brought in, returning the room into darkness. “We’ll all need to be,” he said ruefully.

The night progressed slowly. Deliah fell asleep, curling into one side of the bench as Qualtan and Glaive continued their watch. They spoke softly, pulling back from their stations on occasion to stretch and rub their temples. Suddenly, Glaive tensed and pressed his face closer against their viewing cracks. Noticing the change in his friend’s posture, Qualtan looked out again, seeing nothing.

“What is it? What do you see?” Qualtan knew Glaive’s senses were better than his, probably due to his half-orcne nature.

“Sssh,” Glaive said.

For a moment they sat quietly as Glaive seemed eager to confirm his suspicions. Satisfied, he turned to Qualtan.

“It’s not what we don’t see, it’s what we don’t hear,” he said. Qualtan was briefly confused, but then realized what Glaive meant. The cacophony of insect calls that had accompanied them throughout the night had suddenly stopped.

Qualtan scanned his viewing station. All was soundless. Cottages lay shadowed, their outlines vague in the pressing dark. Wind drew up swirls of leaves and debris. Still, he could see nothing.

Then, the sounds came. A loud, vibrant buzzing, as if from a swarm of bees or cloud of flies, began to grow. Throughout Cuthbert, waiting sentries began to hear the same thing, mumbling under their breaths in anticipation mixed with fear. Qualtan and Glaive shared a worried look as the sound became stronger, harsher. “Here they come,” Glaive whispered.

In between the waves of humming, a low, guttural moan would call out; sending chills down those who heard it, for it came from throats long unused. It was the cry of a ghul. Quickly now they came, dead eyes gleaming in the darkness, scurrying, scampering, scrambling. Some loped on all fours, while others half ran on their hind feet. Qualtan viewed them with shock at first, then growing distaste. He thought back to how well Huel the Innkeeper had described them. Their heads were indeed conical and pointed; their arms longer than any man’s. Their muscular lower appendages were plated with thin, tapering ankles and great, clawed feet, similar to those of a large fowl. Small vestigial tails flopped behind them, and their backs were hunched, almost painfully so, yet it seemed to affect them little. They were pinched and bony with large, black maws that stretched wide. They ran about, clawing at doorways, sniffing at windowsills. They attacked any door they came across, pounding and hissing with their infernal buzzing noises. The sounds of crashing timbers in the distance meant they had broken into something, but no calls came out, so Qualtan hoped it was merely an empty barn or tool shack that had been invaded.

“Look at them go!” Glaive gasped.

“Like sprint-dogs in a race!” Qualtan agreed. Some of the ghuls leaped high onto rooftops, testing reinforced shingles and blocked off chimneys. Their speed was amazing for creatures that had come from the remnants of bodies lain beneath vine-crusted tombstones. They grabbed viciously with their blackened fingers, tearing at walls and growling with savage rage. Makeshift weapons and war worn swords shook in the hands of both farmer and mercenary, pulling back in fear when dead eyes were placed against windows and view holes. Deliah awoke with a cry of fear as undead fists beat against their windows, smashing through them but meeting fair resistance from the unyielding boards nailed behind them. She rushed into Qualtan’s arms as a pale face squeezed into Qualtan’s own view, mashing itself against the wood, black tongue hungrily licking, dead, white eyes searching. Glaive readied his wrist gauntlet. Hideous brown-black teeth raked and bit at the wood. Glaive aimed and released a quick bolt into the creature’s maw. The impact pushed the ghul back from the window, but despite the arrow that now stuck from its bloodless mouth, extending out through the back of its neck, the ghul seemed affected not at all, quickly slamming itself back against the window, looking for any weaknesses in its protection.

The buzzing increased, and Deliah screamed, holding her hands tightly against her ears, attempting to keep out the cry of the dead. Welda immediately rushed downstairs, her two other daughters in tow. Though the walls shook and the windows rattled, the ghuls did not get through. A cow’s mournful cry that grew into a high-pitched shriek bore testament to the ghuls’ success at finding a victim at last. Welda pulled Deliah away from Qualtan into her own arms, as the onslaught continued. For hours they continued unchallenged, until at last, at the rising of the new day, the ghuls began to withdraw, grouping together in packs. They ran low like wolves, stopping now and then to cry out in angry frustration as they left Cuthbert.

Slowly, as the buzzing subsided, doors were opened and windows were pried free. The occupants of Cuthbert released themselves from their evening prisons, looking about their homes, inspecting damage. Nothing had been left untouched by the ghuls’ rampage. Some realized how truly lucky they had been, for damaged beams fell away easily, having been abandoned by their frustrated attackers moments before they would have given way.

“See now? This is what we have been forced to deal with time and time again!” Welda said angrily. Glaive looked at the walls outside of the tower, taking in the claw marks and chunks of stone chiseled away by the ghuls’ undead might. Fences lay twisted, posts toppled, storage lean-to’s utterly destroyed. The cow that had cried out in the night was nowhere to be found. Qualtan and Glaive went to the large barn that lay near the tower and viewed the carnage done there. Anything not bolted down had been strewn about, from buckets to broomsticks. A single horse lay fallen, half its body consumed in horrid fashion. Qualtan grimaced at the sight. Welda came in from behind them and wrung her hands in despair. “Ah! One of my best horses! May Cuthbert protect us from these woes!” she said weakly, rushing away from the scene.

“Fell and damnation!” Trunkhoel exclaimed as he appeared, Welda running past him. He viewed the carcass and bit his lip. “One of my men took a ghul arm that got through a doorway for a souvenir. The damn thing is still twitching!” he said.

“No signs of harm?” Qualtan asked.

“None human, anyway. A cow. A few dogs and chickens are missing, nothing left but feathers and blood. My ears still pound with their hellish drone! You two safe?” he asked.

Qualtan nodded, as he looked about the barn, poring over its remains.

“We have some work to do! Never seen so many of ‘em! Now that we know what stands against us, we can ready for the next time!” Trunkhoel said. Qualtan ignored him. Trunkhoel’s attention was pulled away by his men, as Qualtan knelt to handle a broken storage cabinet that had been pried apart. Glaive walked about, hands on hips, booting disarrayed piles of hay.

“I’ll give one thing to their credit; they’re pretty thorough, aren’t they?” Glaive exclaimed. “The ones I dealt with on that burial isle weren’t nearly as equal to this.”

Qualtan shook his head, his clear blue eyes darting from side to side. A pained look came upon his strong, smooth face.

“What’s wrong?” Glaive inquired as he tossed a mangled pitchfork away.

“It’s passing strange. I…” Qualtan stopped as he collected his thoughts, placing a hand to his lips.

“What’s strange? What is it?” Glaive asked.

“They destroyed everything they could find,” Qualtan intoned dully, rising to his full height.

“That’s what I said. So?” Glaive asked.

“They weren’t just looking for victims to kill. Look at it, all of it. The mess! Smashing locked boxes? Tearing through shelves? I think…”

“Hold, now,” Glaive said, walking up to Qualtan. “Are you saying…?”

Qualtan looked about. “I think they were searching for something.”

Glaive stammered, pondering the surrounding wreckage with a new perspective.  He stood silently, as did Qualtan, taking in the full measure of his words.