> Hello, everyone. My name is T.J. Howard, also called SkyRig here on the internet. This is my first time writing anything on this site, so please be patient and kind to me if you can? I'm very excited to share this with everyone, especially as it is my second original story. My first story is titled Chase Ryder and the City of Lost Memories, which I published over on Amazon almost two years ago. I considered also publishing this story over on Amazon, but one of my friends told me about this site, so I wanted to see what all the hubub is about. I hope you all enjoy it!

>

> If you are curious about my other works, please check out my content on Fanfiction.net, Sufficient Velocity, and Archive of Our Own. With the exception of AO3, my account name on FFN and SV is the same as my username on this site. On AO3, I use a shared account between myself and another author.

PROLOGUE

            Once upon a time, the grassy hills outside the small village of Egrun was Burke’s favorite place to go when he could stomach the stuffy, stifling air of the castle garrison no longer. The cool breeze of winter struck his face at just the right angle, and the crisp air of the forest to the west was a welcome breathe of fresh air. He recalled coming to this place as a child with his friends and parents for picnics. The memory seemed so long ago, finding it difficult to remember what his parents looked like. The times had changed so drastically he could barely recognize himself anymore.

            Nor could he recognize the hellish landscape the grassy hills had become mere hours ago.

            As if reflecting the tragedy that took place, the clouds were dark gray, occasionally rumbling, and faint smell of thunder looming in the air. The hills turned into the sight of a bloody battle, corpses littering its grassy plains for miles. The dirt soaked up the blood like a sponge. The once crisp air now reeked of copper and smoke as Burke and his fellows threw the corpses of their allies and enemies into the pyre. His nose wrinkled with disgust and his eyes stung with tears, unable to handle the smoke or the grizzly sight of his brothers-in-arms kindling within the pyre.

            “Goddesses above, I’m sweating like a cow!” one of the soldiers exclaimed as she backed away from the pyre. “And we’re still nowhere close to done. Can’t we just leave the commonborn to fester and burn ours?”

            Burke glared. “You want shambling disease carriers walking about, be my guest. I won’t be the one to explain to the baron why deadwalkers are wandering about Egrun.”

            “Less talking, more burning,” another soldier said. He looked young, too young even. Burke saw some babyfat in those cheeks, eyes hollow and empty like many who tasted the worst of battle. This was likely his first battle, naught but a fresh recruit whose naïve dreams shattered the second his weapon sank into some poor bastard’s flesh. “Sooner we’re done, the better.”

            Burke looked back to the battlefield, wondering what was wrong with Lixcyus as of late. The land seemed to be in constant turmoil these last few decades, with uprisings and commonborn revolts happening too frequently. The morning hours ago was one such event, where a band of disgruntled men from Egrun raised their arms and laid siege to the local garrison. The commonborn overran the place with numbers alone, Egrun being one of the largest villages in Stormgrave territory. The soldiers were either captured or killed, and the villagers took the weapons and armor for themselves.

            Baron Merkul, the lord of Stormgrave and the noble Burke and many others swore fealty to, refused to allow the tragedy to go unpunished. At his order, the soldiers of the neighboring villages gathered their arms and marched to bring an end to the uprising before it could begin in earnest. A thousand soldiers gathered at the grassy hills and put down the seven-hundred commonborn who threatened the stability of Stormgrave.

            Burke grew up in Egrun. It was his home. When he came of age, he left to join Baron Merkul’s service. He wanted to protect his home and become like the knights he read about in books and fables his mother often told him when he was still a child. His time as a soldier in Yestwood proved enlightening, if somewhat dull for a time before Merkul ordered his soldiers to act. His first battle was a bloody one, him and his brothers-in-arms tasked with culling the bandits hounding the roads between Couslan and Gaspard, a port city and Lixcyus’ center of trade respectively.

            Compared to the uprising, the bandit culling seemed almost like a backyard squabble. Burke couldn’t look away from the corpses strewn about the place. The commonborn had no formal training, having numbers, weapons, and armor to even things out. Despite the lack of training, they proved troublesome, if only because Burke knew some of the faces among the revolting citizenry.

            Burke knelt, gently rolling a corpse onto its back. Thick facial hair, skin clinging deep into the cheekbones, eyes sunken and glazed. There was no life in them, not anymore.

            “I knew you…” he whispered with dread.

            He was a baker and father of four children. His eldest daughter invited him to a wedding months ago, and his sons took over the business when he grew too old. He should have retired by now, spending what few years he had left with his family.

            Why? Why did he throw his life away? And for what? Because they thought the baron wronged them? They felt used? Burke knew nothing about what sparked the revolt or why the commonborn rose up in arms, but in the end, he knew it did not matter. The only thing that mattered was how the conflict came to an end.

            His hands trembled as he reached for the baker’s face, gently closing his eyes shut. He dug his heels into the ground, slid his arms under the corpse’s armpits, then pulled him up and dragged him towards the pyre. Another soldier saw him and came to help, grabbing the baker by the legs. The two threw him onto the pile. Burke could not stand to watch the body burn.

            “Fuckin’ senseless waste of life…” Corporal Vemdan, Burke’s commanding officer in Yestwood, was well into his twilight years. He was slightly younger than the baker by a decade, but his form was hardly frail. He trained every day without fail, maintaining an impressive, albeit scarred physique. Like Burke, he wore a disgusted scowl on his face as he surveyed the battlefield. “And nothin’ to show for it…”

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            “This is the fourth revolt this month,” a female soldier remarked, resting near the pyre to catch her breath. “Last one I saw was when I served under Baron Kale in Haight.”

            “I’ve heard of the revolt there,” Burke said. “The townsfolk and garrison of Limswick rose up in arms after the baron oversaw a disgraced soldier’s execution, isn’t that right?”

            “Well-loved by the people, yeah. They refused to believe he did whatever the baron accused him of. Wasn’t the first time it happened, either.”

            “Feels like Lixcyus’ gone mad,” another soldier bemoaned. Burke noticed the three-pointed amulet hanging from his neck by a thin silver thread. “Or maybe the Goddesses are punishing us.”

            Corporal Vemdan looked at Burke. “What do you think?”

            “I know we’re never going to get this done before nightfall,” he said. In truth, he didn’t want to keep doing this. The disgusting sounds in his stomach refused to cease. How many of his friends and neighbors had he killed in that battle? How many was he burning with his own two hands? “Let’s… Let’s finish this quickly, before a deadwalker crops up.”

            With so many corpses left to burn, a deadwalker was more than likely to rise up among the bodies. A deadwalker was not dangerous, not by itself. It shambled, had little intelligence, and did no more than stumble and flail. Although rare, some deadwalkers could speak, though even then, the only noises coming from their throats were nonsensical gibberish and slurred gargles. Even with the minimal danger, however, it was practice and standard issue order to kill any deadwalker roaming around. Although easy to kill, deadwalkers could contract and carry disease. If you were not careful, a roaming band of shambling zombies could be carrying a fatal disease and start a plague.

            There are so many damn bodies, they’ll start springing up before we’re done, Burke thought wearily. In the event a deadwalker rose, he kept a serrated knife on his person to cut off its head or cut through a limb.

            Burke stood over another corpse, this time going to grab it without confirming their identity. Something black came into his field of vision. He looked to the right and frowned. A cloaked figure stood over one of the dead bodies amid the grassy fields. Their back was turned, so he could not make out any definite features beyond the slender, pale hand caressing the helm of the corpse they stood over.

            “Tch. Damn looters,” he spat angrily. Was there truly no respect for the dead? He rose to his feet and reached for the serrated knife. “Oi, you there! What do you think you’re doin’?”

            The cloaked figure did not answer. In fact, they did not appear to hear him at all. Their hand traced the bottom rim of the helm, then pressed the hand against the exposed flesh between the metal collar of the breastplate and the helm.

            “Did you not hear a word I said?” Burke marched toward them. He heard a sword being drawn behind him, the others now also taking notice of the cloaked figure. “On your feet, stranger. Off with your hood!”

            The figure still did not answer. They retracted their hand.

            “Are you deaf?!” Burke grabbed them by the shoulder. “I said—“ Before he could pull them to their feet, a powerful gust of wind exploded in his face and threw him to the ground. The wind howled and rampaged for a scant second before dying down with a whimper. Burke groaned, finding the feeling of metal digging into his skin uncomfortable. “Wha…what just happened?”

“Burke, you alright?” a soldier asked.

            “I’m fine…” He groaned, pushing himself up off the mushy earth underneath him. “What about the looter?” He looked up and blinked. “What the devil…?”

            The cloaked figure was gone. There was no sign of them; no evidence of their being here, no retreating back as they fled down the hill… Nothing.

            “Was she a malefic?” Corporal Vemdan spoke the thought on their minds. “That wind just now… There was hardly a damned breeze before they appeared.”

            Burke swallowed the lump in his throat. Until now, he never had the pleasure of meeting a magic-user. They were seldom seen, either hiding away in deep woodlands where none save the bravest dare ventured or serving the Court as Enchanters under the guidance of the Church of Sacred Order. He heard many tales of their abilities and powers, and frankly, he hoped to never find himself on the other end of their spellcasting. There were more than a few horror stories about malefic and their wicked mancies, and he had no desire to see if there was any truth to them.

            He looked at the corpse the figure examined. Their armor bore the crest of Yestwood, meaning it was one of theirs. They died with sword in hand. Sighing, Burke walked over and kneeled to inspect the body to see if it was tampered with. If the malefic was trying to loot the body, they failed in that none of the straps were undone. The patch of flesh she touched was unmarred, save for the black mark on their neck. He did not recognize the design, though it was clearly not tied to the faith.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “Nothing,” Burke called back. “Looks like they didn’t get far…” He paused and frowned.

            Was an hour-old corpse supposed to be warm?

            As if responding to his thoughts, the corpse stirred and groaned. Burke’s eyes widened and reached for the serrated knife. The deadwalker rose to its hands and knees, the mud dripping from its face and breastplate. Burke unsheathed the knife and grabbed the deadwalker by the collar of its breastplate, pulling them up so he could get a better view of its neck. He needed flesh to cut through, not metal.

            He readied the knife, careful to keep his grip on the deadwalker in case it attacked. Beneath the metal faceplate, he could see the creature’s eyes. They were…

            Blue. Ice-shaded blue.

            “What…?”

            That wasn’t right. Deadwalkers had white eyes, blank and without sclera nor pupils. Burke frowned in confusion, suddenly unsure. One of the soldiers made a move to help, but he waved them back. He stabbed the serrated knife into the earth and began removing the faceplate from the helm to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him. The latches were easily undone. The faceplate fell off the helm, revealing the deadwalker’s visage.

            Burke’s eyes went wide, bulging almost. Words escaped him, unable to describe the shock coursing through his body. Blurry blue eyes stared back at him in confusion.

            “W…who…” the man spoke in a hoarse voice before his eyes rolled to the back of his eyes and went limp. Burke’s flimsy grip allowed him to fall to the ground.

            “Burke!” Corporal Vemdan shouted. “What’s going on? Is it a deadwalker?!”

            For a few seconds, Burke was quiet. He just stared at the unconscious body in front of him before looking up at his commander, face ashen. “N-no… It’s the Captain.” His brothers-in-arms stared in disbelief. He spoke again, voice higher and full of raw emotion. “C-Captain Roland’s alive! HEALER! SOMEONE GET A HEALER!”