Gilly panted heavily in the damp heat. Emma knew she’d have to call a stop soon to let her cool off and drink. She could see the light of a clearing just ahead, the sparser trees allowing more sunlight to reach the ground. Spurring the hound on just a touch further, she cautiously passed golden shafts of light, diffused by buzzing gnats and lazily drifting pollens into radiant jacob’s ladders.
Motion between the scattered trees brought her heightened awareness to bear on the singular source. There, in the clearing ahead, was a distant barn and a partially obscured house. The tiny shapes of people wandered between them. People! There WERE settlers out here! They weren’t too late! Turning back, she urged Gilly into a full run toward the rest of the party to inform them of her discovery.
—
The team of four emerged into the unfiltered light of the late afternoon sun, breaking from the tree line in a tight formation around Gilly. They kept their pace measured, not wanting to risk being confused for raiders themselves by the settlers below. Logan could see them wandering back and forth between the various structures of the farm, clearly hard at work, though with what he had no notion.
The fields surrounding the stead were barren of any crop. The oddly checkered expanses seemed to contain naught but shallow square depressions overgrown with weeds.
“They’ve spotted us,” Emma commented, drawing his attention away from the fields. Indeed, a few of the figures down by the barn were pointing in their direction, and several individuals were beginning to congregate near the front gate to the property.
“Think they’re happy to see us? They can’t get many travelers out here,” Liam asked.
“Who can say? Could just as easily be why they’re out so far in the first place.” Logan replied noncommittally.
“With that many people? They have to be trading with someone. This place isn’t big enough to sustain itself without outside contact.” Emma added her lot to the topic. Magne remained oddly stoic, paying more mind to the curious fields around them than the subject at hand. When they finally came within a hundred yards of the gate, Magne stepped forward.
“Ho the stead!!” they called in a booming voice, no doubt touched by a hint of their divine magics. Liam rolled his eyes at that.
“They’re farmers, not poets, Magne.” the elf mumbled in a barbed jest.
“Shut it, mountain man, tradition exists for a reason.” Magne shot back softly, then resumed their much louder projection. “We come with news from Njörvenn!”
The men and women near the gate conversed amongst themselves for only a moment, before opening the rickety wooden gate and sending out a representative. The man walked with strength and purpose that contrasted sharply with his silver hair and grim, leathery face. He kept a small crossbow at his side, cocked but unloaded.
“Don’t get many travelers out here. Fewer still with neighborly intent. I've had no dealings with Njörvenn in ages. What news would you have that I'd care about?” the old human had a voice like tree bark and a scowl to match.
“We bring a warning. Something has driven the Skethna-” Magne was cut off by the aged local.
“The what, now?”
“The lizardfolk.” they clarified. “Something has driven them to desperation. Two homesteads have already been lost. One family was slain, but the other we evacuated first.”
“That all?”
The party stared at the old farmer in shock as he asked the simple question with nary a hint of concern or emotion.
“Sir, perhaps we didn't lend this the proper sense of scale.” Logan expounded, stepping forward. “This is a massive war band, and if the scholars prove to be correct, there’s likely an even larger one on its heels. Being this far west puts you right in the path of whatever tribe is hounding the Skethna.”
“We’ve fended off the lizards before,” the old man said flatly.
“Small raiding parties, I imagine. Groups of perhaps five or six?” Liam spoke up for the first time. “Am I close to the mark?” The old man looked reluctant to admit to Liam’s accuracy, choosing instead to spit onto the dirt path. He wasn’t moving, though. Liam had his attention. “The Warband that killed the Nichols was near 40 strong. So tell me. Do you want to see those fine folk there behind you try to fend off a force large enough to send that one running with their tails between their legs? With naught but a few crossbows and farm tools?” The old man’s wrinkled face drew taut with anger as Liam spoke.
“And what would you have us do? Huh?” the man snapped. “This place is our livelihood! There’s no way we could run our cattle all the way to Njörvenn and outrun a Warband! Those trees out there are THEIR home. We'd be sitting ducks!”
“Are your lives not worth the cattle?” Magne plied, trying to plead for reason.
“They’re one and the same!” the old man argued. “I leave them behind, and I might as well kill us myself. Better than watching my family stave.”
“What cattle?” Emma interjected. The scout had taken in the land around them while they all spoke, and she saw no signs of livestock. The old man hooked his thumb back over his shoulder.
“When we realized something was off, we started penning them all up in the barn to keep them safe. One building is easier to guard than a bunch of open fields.” The party exchanged silent looks of consternation at this. Magne, being the most diplomatic, gave voice to what they were all clearly thinking.
“Then you've taken that which the lizardfolk are most likely to want, gathered it into a single place, and put your kin between them and their prize.” the dwarf explained in the most politic way they could. The old man chose then to close the distance between them, stepping close enough to speak without shouting.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“What else can we do?!” he hissed. “Answer me that, before you go scaring my kin. What. Else. Can. We. Do?” The travelers looked amongst one another, uncertain of what to do about this unforeseen refusal.
“I have a proposal.” Logan offered, slowly. The old man’s baleful glare snapped down to him, in no forgiving mood but listening nonetheless. “Take what few you need to survive. Even if it’s by the skin of your teeth, survival is better than not.” The dusky Halfling held his hand aloft to forestall a reply. “The sun will be setting soon. How’s this? Grant us a night’s hospitality. Just a room with a roof, nothing more. If the lizards should come in the night, you’ll have four more hands to help defend the stead. If not, then you take the night to think it over. In the morning we’ll leave for Njörvenn, and if you so choose we will help you run what cattle you need.”
The old man frowned, deep lines furrowed into creased leather skin.
“You come on my land and ask me to grant you the rites of hospitality and then leave it in the same breath?” his raspy voice sanded away all tone until only an unreadable neutrality was left.
“Please. We came to help.” was Logan’s earnest reply. The old farmer stared for a long and silent moment.
“You’re not to go near the cattle,” he growled, all smoke and frost. “You’ll have beds and a roof. I’ll send my son with supper for you as well. But I don’t know you, and I have no one to vouch for your character. So you’ll be staying in the guest house till dawn.” With that, the old man turned and headed back for the gate at a brisk walk.
Magne broke from the other three as they all turned inward to discuss the brusk nature of the arrangement.
“Sir!” They called out as the party all followed inward, stroking their beard uncertainly. “We never got your name. What stead is this?”
“Erik. Welcome to the Marsh Freehold.” the gruff man called back over his shoulder, passing a long disused windmill.
“Seems bein’ a right cunt is a family trait,” Liam grumbled under his breath, before grunting from Emma’s elbow to the gut.
—
Hospitality, within the Marsh estate, seemed to include a single unfurnished room, a thick lukewarm stew of potatoes and horse meat, a privy pot, and little else. The meal had been dropped off by a squat, somewhat wall-eyed boy, and beyond that, not another soul had come to see them.
“Will you STOP PACING?” Magne demanded.
“I don’t like this,” Liam explained, never breaking stride. “Why does it feel more like we’re prisoners than guests? Something isn’t right here.”
“Other than yet another Marsh being a paranoid old Miser? Come off it.”
“No, Magne, he’s right,” Emma said thoughtfully as she stared out the window. The sun had long since set, but she could still see the glowing lanterns of the people patrolling the barn.
“What did you see?” Logan asked quietly. His wife had a knack for noticing detail that he’d come to trust.
“Not see, hear. Erik said the family shuttled all their cattle into that barn.” Emma pointed towards the window with her chin. “Ever been around livestock that’s crowded into a small space? They tend not to appreciate it, and kick up a ruckus.” That got Liam to stop in his tracks, and the other two to pay close attention.
“I grew up around plenty of ranches. Cows take up large swatches of flat grassland. Not like this. Too muddy. Too soft. And those weird holes in the fields. I’ve seen cows break legs in less.” Liam explained, stroking his chin. Magne snapped their fingers then.
“Cane holes,” they supplied.
“Beg pardon?” Logan chuffed.
“The weird squares in the field. Cane holes. Explains the old windmill too. I think this place used to be a sugar plantation. Probably used to ship it right down the river, hence the lack of roads,” the well-read dwarf deduced.
“And what use would a sugar plantation have of a barn that size?” Emma brought the room back around to the topic at hand. There was a stretch of silence as Logan scooped the last of his stew from the bowl, only to look up and find the rest of the party staring at him.
“What? Something on my face?” he deflected.
“Cheeky bastard. You know you’re the sneakiest.” Liam chuckled. “I mean, I’d go but I don’t think busting down the front door is the way we want to go just now. But if that’s what you REALLY WANT!” Liam said exaggeratedly, raising his voice as he marched for the door.
“I’m goin’, I’m goin’!” Logan sighed, grabbing his things and making for the window.
—
A pair of overzealous farmhands and a barn did not a barrack make. Logan smirked as he dashed between the circles of lantern light.
“Just like old times, ey Lightfoot?” He whispered to himself. Thinking back on his youth, Logan found nothing worth missing. He had a warm home, a loving wife, and a clever daughter. No, he certainly didn’t miss his former life. But sometimes it was nice to know he still had it in him.
He eyed the aged padlock, knowing it would be child’s play to pick it, even without his old tools, but even if he could do so quietly enough to avoid detection on a still night there was simply no way he could roll that barn door open without alerting the entire stead. His dark eyes roamed over his mark, searching for a plan b. It came in the form of an unlatched loft window.
A smug look curled playfully at the tiny man’s features as he took two steps back before whispering a phrase like the name of an old friend.
“Alley Cat.”
Instantly, he felt the tingle of the old enchantment buzzing against the balls of his feet. He wasted no time, knowing it would not take long for the guards to circle back around again. He felt the magic in his stride and he bounded a few paces and leaped into the air. His toes caught the eve of the door and allowed him that final bound upwards to grasp the sil of the loft. He could hear heavy boots coming closer to the corner of the building, the light carving a swath of noon along the ground. He scrambled upward as fast as he could manage and rolled onto the wooden loft floor. He panted into his shirt to muffle the sound, listening for a moment to see if anything had been noticed by those below.
*Still got it!* Logan mouthed the victory cry silently to himself with a broad grin. His smile melted away though when he rolled to his feet and took his first real breath of the air. It was PUTRID in here. He tucked his tunic back over his nose but it accomplished little. He walked with care, rolling his feet along slowly to avoid creaking boards giving him away.
What he saw upon reaching the edge of the loft had him briefly baffled into inaction. The razor-thin lines of shifting light from the circling lanterns outside illuminated vague outlines of hanging meat on hooks.
“A slaughterhouse?” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he was more surprised by the fact that there really had been cattle, or that ranchers would be so daft as to slaughter their entire herd and store the meat in a warm barn. For that matter, how the devil had they not smelled this place from a mile off?! This barn trip was made of more questions than answers.
Logan slid down a ladder and decided to risk a little light. Pulling a coin from his purse, he kept it firmly hidden in his fist, allowing him to shift his fingers slightly to better control the light that emanated from the simple copper piece. Directly before him was what looked to be a huge metal vat or distiller of some kind. If Magne was right, then perhaps it had something to do with the previous use of the land. He turned slowly, keeping both light and eyes turned downward. If this was meant to be some kind of trap for the lizards, he didn’t want to stumble into it himself.
He took slow, sweeping steps, brushing hay and detritus out of his path in careful arks, but saw nothing but dirt. He turned his gaze upward, trying to suss out the catch.
“What kind of daft… shite… oh.” Logan trailed off, feeling any warmth and levity contained within his person drain right out through his feet. There before him, dangling from a hook through its jaw, was the limbless, scaly torso of one of the lizardfolk. Caution forgotten, he cast the light all around in a frantic bid for comprehension.
Another lizardfolk, devoid of entrails. A dwarf, bloated and rotten, hanging by a hook through the ankles. A rack of muscular tails, gray with decomposition. Logan staggered, shoving the back of his fist into his mouth to stifle a cry of shock as the bloodless, upside-down face of a Halfling woman stared blindly into his soul.
“Gods below!” he hissed, gagging. This was beyond desperation, or depravity. This was madness. His own thundering heart and lurching stomach drowned his senses briefly, but instinct drew him back into the moment when he heard shouting outside. He whirled searching for the ladder, certain he’d been found out.
Then he heard the unmistakable snarling of Liam. It was too distant to make out words, but he knew the rage in that voice all too well. His worst fears were confirmed when the clatter of metal on metal rang through the night like a bell.
“DAMN!”
Logan grabbed the ladder, scrambling as fast as he could to try and reach his friends. The bone-rattling clamor not unlike some unholy gong nearly lost him his footing. He fumbled for his coin, but sweat and panic buttered his fingers and sent the shining piece clattering to the floor. A skull-splitting encore set his ears ringing, and shook the floorboards hard enough that the ladder nearly tipped. Below, the metal walls of the vat cast strange shadows around the barn as something bent them violently outwards. Logan stared in horror as the failing metal container thinned enough that he could hear the countless voices crying frantically from behind the strained iron.