[55]

“We’ve talked a lot about how to deal with the undead but have gone little into why full squad extermination teams are necessary,” said an Umbrakin man named Instructor Fulk, in a voice so deep it rumbled out of his chest. He was typical of his kind, having a torso and arms much larger than his lower half. Two large tusks protruding from his canine teeth, yet they did not seem to impact his ability to speak common. Where most of the non-furred races had smooth skin, Instructor Fulk had a dark black tough hide more like a Stoneblood dwarf.

Forty black-robed students and Izzy listened to the instructor with questionable attention. It was a nice, cool night. An enormous bonfire crackled in the center of the makeshift camp. Our bivouac, training regiment number three, was situated in a field approximately three and a half miles northwest of Ashmere. The moon was full, the stars twinkled, and crickets chirped, giving the night an ironically peaceful quality when compared to the task that awaited us.

We had just eaten fresh venison and chili, and I had to admit that I found the meal to be exceptional and robust, if not at all conducive to learning. The heavy food sat in my stomach, giving a warm lull that demanded sleep. I did not think I was the only one that had this issue, either, from the lazy eyed students laying on the surrounding ground.

“Let me tell you about Jebediah Trapper,” Instructor Fulk said, oblivious, or maybe immune, to the surrounding lethargy. “Jebediah was a hermit that lived in the forest west of a small village called Darwell, around one-hundred and ten years ago. None of you have heard of Darwell, because it no longer exists. Anyway, the man lived in the north for sixty-seven years, and was aware of the danger Gozmyr presented. Especially so since he hunted animals for a living.”

“One day, his best and only friend, a dog named Samwel, died. Jebediah, lonely and grief-stricken, could not go through with burning or decapitating the animal like he knew he should. The way he had done for everything he ever killed, for nearly seventy years. Instead, he buried the dog in the earth and covered the grave with a stone, hoping that it would keep the corpse trapped. We will never know why he really did it, whether it was because he wanted to visit his old friend, or secretly wanted to bring him back.”

“As you might guess, that turned out to be a tragedy of the highest order. It took a week, but eventually the hound crawled its way out of the grave and infected Jebediah one night while he slept. The dumb bastard killed the returned monster, losing most of his hand for his trouble. Knowing his time was short, Jebediah ran toward Darwell to have someone do for him what he should have done for his dog. However, it was dark out, the man was woozy from blood loss and despair and couldn’t see where he was going. He fell into the new well the townsfolk were digging.”

“Jebediah Trapper’s stupid mistake killed him. Then, it killed the villagers who drank the blighted water, not knowing their new reservoir was tainted with a corpse. The undead citizens of Darwell destroyed and corrupted five more villages before anyone knew what was happening. We lost around ten thousand lives over that single act of sloppiness. Like a plague, it only takes one infected to spread Gozmyr’s last laugh.”

“And that is why your job is important. It is why you must make sure that not a single blighted corpse wanders its way toward a living settlement. For our quadrant, there are only forty of you. That’s ten teams of four to scour a vast and rough terrain. It will be painful, and when it isn’t, it will be mind-numbingly boring. In those moments you need to remember what’s at stake. You need to think about that stupid old man Jebediah, and all the lives he cost. As ascended, we know better than most that the gods are waiting for us on the other side.”

“That’s all. Now, form up and meet your new team captains.” Instructor Fulk said.

His speech accomplished its goal of turning us from lazy to vigilant. If anything, I had to give it to the man for his timing.

Ascended were given a certain amount of leeway in who we wanted to associate ourselves with. We were not soldiers, and the connections we formed were just as important as group synergy. After a long week of training, they allowed us to form up in groups of three. They slotted together those that did not know two other people together with the help of the instructors. Fortunately, I did not have that problem, joining an official team with Raxx and Joy.

That was the extent of our discretion. Over the last week, each of the instructors evaluated our skills and abilities in private, then got together to assign team leaders from the year three students. I was not sure how they felt about being split up from their own groups, and to be honest, I did not really care. The more alarming issue was that the third-year students were so much fewer than the first years. It dismayed me upon seeing how many had died during their own excursions, or out on their own Ruinlands expeditions.

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My goal had always been to improve myself, but seeing the state of things, even at the prestigious Ashmere, lit a fire in my heart. I refused to be another casualty.

Raxx, Joy, and I stood together in a triangle formation near the edge of the lined-up groups. Our official name was team seven, a name I found to be pleasantly auspicious. Seven realms had the gods created for themselves, and so it considered a lucky number.

The three of us had spoken extensively about what to expect. Joy worked people for as much information as she could on the ten potential candidates that might lead our group. Some of the third years were downright terrible. Not necessarily in skill, although even I knew being a leader was difficult, but in luck or attitude. A person whose team died every time they went out was not someone that we wanted to be saddled with. Our lives depended on having a squad leader that possessed a cool head and was not a glory or essence hound.

In other words, we did not want someone like Reynold.

I looked a few groups down to see the smirking idiot, along with his friend Tedric and another orange headed noble I saw around campus but did not know. The three of them formed an all Ankest nobles’ club. Reynold was fortunate that the boy was around. After his family nearly caused a civil war, and to be fair still might, no one wanted to group with him and Tedric. Sentiment toward the Kestev family was at an all-time low. We were all surprised he answered the call to return. His sister Sibilla certainly had not.

Neither had Elaine.

I was not sure how I felt about that. Her parting words had certainly hurt me, but I recognized she, too, was in pain. Not that I could just roll over and excuse her behavior. The problem was I just had a troublesome time staying angry with her. Grudges had never been easy for me to hold on to. Having lived the life that I have, under constant ridicule and abuse, I ingrained a mandatory level of forgiveness within my mind so that I did not break under the constant pressure. Distancing myself from unpleasant emotions was not always a good coping mechanism, but it was often useful.

Elaine owed me an apology.

But putting that aside, Ashmere, no we, needed her expertise to confront this threat. Whatever spy garbage she was off dealing with could not have mattered more than what we were dealing with in Gozmyr.

Then there was the other thing: Florence.

Two squads to the right of me were Florence’s group, team nine. The insane, probably also murderer, noble looked as prim and proper as the first time I laid eyes on her. She kept her purple hair back in a tight bun and her back ramrod straight, looking like the soul of etiquette. Her teammates quietly spoke to each other while Florence gave them a pleasant, welcoming smile.

The audacity of the girl sent a shiver down my spine. I had met no one like her before. Even Saewulf, who was as stone cold a killer as you will ever meet, could not so effortlessly mask his emotions. Elaine, who had trained with the RRS since she could walk, was probably the closest thing I had seen before, but still her true personality shined through occasionally.

Deep inside Florence was likely crazy, and assuredly full of vitriol and hate. I sincerely hoped our paths would not cross in the wilderness. If the gods had any justice, a pack of undead horrors would eat her.

I looked away from her, fearing she would catch me staring. Florence had said nothing to me, or even looked in my direction since I reported her. But she had to know that someone spilled the beans. The last thing I needed was for her to figure out it was me.

Izzy sat on a log near the instructors, watching us from afar over her third bowl of chili. I worried she would resent me for having her pulled away from duties again. The thing was, I really valued Izzy as a friend. Luckily, she had been in great spirits since discovering she could go with an extermination team. I got the impression that guard life was not the sort of adventure she liked, notably because of how often she loved to tell stories about her time in the field. Since her horrible husband was in charge of one of the training regiments, she might even get the chance to spend time with him. Hopefully, he treated her better than he did his students.

“All right, everyone, listen up,” Instructor Fulk said, regaining my attention. “When I call your name, head over to your group and introduce yourself. Drogo Mayne, group one…”

The air was tense for us. Well, for me and Joy. Raxx picked at his nose with a clawed finger, uninterested in the happenings of us lowly mortals. Apparently, Harak could get boogers like humans. I made a mental note to ask him about that later.

“...Gene Pew, group seven…”

I looked at Joy to see her wincing. That was not good.

A huge bull of a man dressed in a full set of armored plate-mail stomped over to us. Though he was human, he shared little resemblance to other men of our species, with a neck so wide and thick with muscle he may as well have been a beastman. Scars ran down his face and across his crooked, beaten up nose. The top of his head, where hair would normally be, was a shock of red and black tattoos.

“You are team seven?” Gene scoffed, sending the stinking smell of alcohol out of his mouth. Up close, I realized he was missing a lot of teeth.

“We are,” I said politely.

“A pretty boy, a no-good cur, and a fuckin’ worm eater. Koth have mercy on my soul,” said our new team leader.

It was going to be a hell of an excursion.