Thin wispy clouds hung in the early autumn sky, leaving faint trails as the wind guided them across it. Sheep and goats covered the hilltops, basking in the afternoon sun and picking at the remaining patches of rich summer grass. The hills were lined with stout, gnarled trees, their bark bleached grey over time. Their leaves had begun to die. Mottled clumps of reds, oranges, and yellows rustled with the gentle breeze. In the shade of a hill squatted a hovel, a dark and worn-down thing. Cracks dotted the wattle and daub panels. Small peep-holes dotted where the whitewash flaked away. A handful of mud or a loose wooden shingle from the roof covered them once they grew large enough to fit a hand through.
The wind blew the sky clear, and the sun began its descent, daylight entered the home for the first time that day. Bright rays like the long fingers of a warm, gentle golden hand brushed over everything within its dingy interior. Light landed on Thomas’s face, prodding him awake. He let out a low, pained groan as consciousness returned to him, scrunching up his face as he tried to block out the light. His hand swung lazily towards the window, one half of his fatigued mind stretched to close the out-of-reach curtain, the other half vainly tried to smack the light away. Several long minutes passed, and he accepted defeat.
He pushed against the mattress as he lifted himself upright, his free hand rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Thomas was a tall, thin, and sickly-looking man. His hair was short and curly, black, and peppered with grey. A thin, sharp nose and patchy stubble clung to his face. His eyes were blue and sunken, two sapphires that tried to hide in the back of his skull. He looked like a corpse and stunk of mud and cider. The single room of his home was dirty and cluttered. The floors were covered in random scratches, scuffs, and stains. Every available patch of wall space was used, haphazardly installed shelves and hunting trophies lined every surface. Random baubles hung from hooks that were nailed into the rafters. And slotted on top of them was a makeshift platform, another measure to create more space to stuff with old junk. His home resembled a rotting stump with dozens of mushrooms sprouting out of it. The same stink that covered Thomas lined the room as well, blending with the stagnant air and the dust. The dust was omnipresent, it covered everything in a uniform layer, filling any loose space Thomas had not already made use of.
No matter how hard he tried, he could never get rid of it. He would clean one spot and a new layer would smother it by the time he began on the second. Not that it mattered, he never bothered cleaning. He never saw the point in it. There was no one he needed to impress, no one he needed to please, to make feel at home for. He had lived on the outskirts of Orhill for a decade, and since the day he got it, Thomas was the only one who had seen the inside of his home. He stared out the window, dust floated along the streams of light that poured through it. His mind drifted away from him as he was lost in their tiny dance.
His thoughts looped around and around, walking along well-worn tracks in his head, spiralling till his mind shook off the last remnants of sleep. Sunlight shined through the window, the sun only shines through that window during the afternoon. Thomas smacked his forehead and cursed. He swore that he did not drink that much last night, his mind raced to try to figure out how he overslept. Quickly standing up, he found himself tripping over his own feet and falling back into bed. He laid limp. A low groan filled the room. Wide open eyes burned holes through the ceiling, the true amount that he had indulged struck him at once. He could feel last night’s liquid dinner as it sloshed around his insides, his hands trembled as his guts twisted and writhed like angry snakes. A headache slowly thudded like a fist knocking on the inside of his skull. Thomas's next few movements were slow and deliberate, any sudden movements and he would be sick. He breathed in and out, steadying himself. He closed his eyes, slipped his legs over the edge of his bed, and stood up.
Thomas shuffled toward the dresser, reached for the tarnished copper pitcher, and then filled a shallow bowl before splashing water into his face. Rubbing last night's grime off his skin. His fingers linger on a few old scars.
Thomas then scraped his yellowed teeth clean with a toothpick, rinsed out his mouth and chewed on some dried herbs to freshen his breath. His tongue got caught in the gaps of his missing teeth as it ran across them.
A sharp pain fired through his belly. Hunger. Thomas quickly debated whether he would rather make the long walk into town or go back to bed and sleep the day off. He did not ponder long before his stomach forced his hand. In a blink of an eye, he already had his coat on and was making his way out the door. The shuffle of pages stopped him before he could reach it. Thomas froze as he saw what his foot bumped into. His face grew pale.
He dropped to his knees, frantically grabbing the open tome that laid face down against the dirty floor. Thomas couldn't believe he left it like this. He dusted it off before flipping it closed. Carefully, he ran a finger along every edge and corner, searching for damage on the old, worn storybook. He found none. He let out a deep sigh and murmured a prayer under his breath. It was the last gift Thomas received from his mother, the only thing he still had of her. He slumped back onto his bed and ran his fingers along its face, flaky gold filigree speckled a worn red fabric cover. He dared not read it any more out of fear of ruining it further. Its pages were as thin as tissue and felt twice as frail. But it didn't matter, he had long since committed every story to memory. He knew them better than the trails of the woods, the call of the game, the back of his own hands. Every single one started the same.
“Once upon a time,” his mother would say, “there lived a brave, strong boy. Just like you.”
Thomas wondered how many years it had been since he heard her voice. He was ten when she vanished, gone in the morning like smoke from a fire. Now he was thirty-four, the gap between his two selves was painfully long, but the wall between him and his memories felt so thin. Another story he couldn't touch. Instead, he was left to rot in a dingy shack on the outskirts of Orhill. Completely and utterly alone.
Thomas winced; the dull pain lingered on his cheek.
"Idiot." He smacked himself again. The thoughts faded from his mind. He tried to stop them, but they always returned. They were a raw, bloody wound in his gut that would never heal. It was an embarrassment. He composed himself, not wishing to waste any more of the day after failing to do anything in the morning. He gave the book one final look over before he wrapped it up in its cloth, placed it in a small chest and slid it under the bed with his foot. Safe and secure. He slung a bag over his shoulder and locked the door behind him.
⁂
A loud squelch followed every footfall as Thomas tread through the mud. His boots snagging after every step. He pulled his coat tight around himself, digging his hands into his pockets as he shivered. His home was well off the beaten track, connected to the town only by an old hunting trail. It would have been unreasonable to snake a proper path to his doorstep. The only one he had was the strip of bare dirt he was able to tread out over the years. It swallowed boots like a bear trap during the wetter months. It was quiet, the sound of the world was smothered under a great invisible blanket. The birdsong of summer had long been silenced, in its place a few spare chirps and the rustle of something small in the underbrush danced along a whispered conversation between the wind and the leaves.
Thomas moved from one walkway to another, the trees slowly thinning as he continued. The path widened, compacted earth took the place of cold mud before being replaced by gravel shortly after. Homes began to populate the road, stout piles of shaped stones bound together with mortar and capped with tiled roofs. They were humble but still infinitely more luxurious than the renovated abandoned cabin he squatted in. They became more common as he approached Orhill. He saw forest replaced with open farmland with a scattering of houses, only for the fields to clog with them once he had reached the walls.
Whitewashed piles of brick, two and half times the height of a man, lined either side of the road. Beautiful construction, but Thomas doubted the effectiveness. A gift from Mayor Gilligan to provide the impression of safety instead of providing something more substantial. Hooked to the side were a pair of equally large wooden doors, if guards were regularly stationed there then they would be ready to slam shut at a moment’s notice.
Past the walls, Orhill was laid out like a maze. The buildings were packed tightly together, shoulder to shoulder, lining every available space along thin cobblestone streets. Their tight formation was only interrupted by the random alleyway that wormed between them. Bricks, either fired clay or finely cut stone, formed the foundation of most of them. Wooden frames inlaid with wattle and daub sat on top, they reached upwards to extend their building’s height by an extra story or two. They fought over space, like branches in the canopy. Few kept themselves at ground level. Regardless of their quality, they were far better maintained than Thomas’s hut.
The streets should have been a riot, a sea of humanity, endlessly shoving and screaming at each other. He should've seen two merchants fiercely haggling in an alley, a group of drunks fighting each other out a door, street children playing while being desperately herded by overprotective parents. He was always drowning whenever he stepped past the walls, the crowd crashing like waves against him, threatening to sweep him away never to be seen again. That was what he had come to expect from Orhill.
Instead, silence.
Deafening quiet flooded the empty streets. He glanced around, expecting to see something appear. A random pair dipping into a store, a face in a window, a grandpa stumbling along, any sign of life. But instead, there was nothing. Orhill was empty.
Entering the circular courtyard, Thomas examined his surroundings. During the afternoon, the market would fill the air with the chatter of arguing customers and vendors. Those few stalls that were still standing were as barren as the rest of the town. The statue of Sir William kept a lonely vigil from his central plinth. His horse rearing back on its hind legs as he readied to bring his sword down upon a nameless foe. The finer details of the bronze knight were caked over with splotchy Verdigris and bird droppings. Thomas paced around the market, investigating the buildings that lined it. Taverns, stores, the occasional inn or residence. Empty, every single one.
Some were locked, the rest looked like a storm ran through them. Had he forgotten something, a festival perhaps? He shook his head as soon as the idea came to him. Cheap drink and more food than he would know what to do with, his stomach wouldn't have forgotten something like that.
A blur passed the corner of Thomas's eye. Movement. The first sign of life since he stepped through the walls. He squinted and saw them, one of the townsfolk, their eyes wide and nervously glancing around. They muttered something as they raced ahead into an alleyway. They were followed by more and more, either alone or in pairs. Darting from one side road and straight into the other. Some were as nervous as the first. Others were angry, red-faces and irritated mumbling replaced shaky whispers. There was one word they all had on their lips.
One name.
Gilligan.
“Oh god,” Thomas thought aloud. “What has the mayor done this time?”
A quick duck into an alley was followed by a mad dash through a side street, Thomas twisted himself into knots as he navigated an increasingly dense sea of humanity. Orhill’s folk didn’t vanish, Gilligan had called them all to the town square. All the loud garbage was uprooted and shoved into a tight corner. For Thomas, It was indescribably painful.
The crowd grew thicker, like grapes squeezed tight together in a wine press. It turned his progress to a painful crawl. Thomas attempted to continue his previous urban waltz, but after a few stepped-on feet and the following retaliatory shoves and profanities, he gave up on his try at civility and followed the example of his townsmen. He moved through like a dog treading angry water. As the waves of gossip flowed down the streets, the tone of the racket turned from average anger to something quite unfamiliar in the town. Frightened. The same keywords circled Thomas’s ears.
“We can’t defend against a bandit attack.”
“God has sent fiends to punish us.”
“I knew I saw something, but you didn’t believe me.”
One paranoid comment followed the other, like links in a chain.
“Move it!”
Thomas only had enough time to glance behind him before the impact. One, two, three loud steps and then they crashed. Somebody, two somebodies, tried to shove Thomas aside as they raced to the front of the crowd. With a familiar motion, he reached his hands forward, grabbing the twins by the back of their collars and sending them to the ground with a firm yank. Jackson was dazed and Paul was outraged. He bit his tongue when he realised who they nearly barrelled through. The twins were stuck in the awkward stage between the end of childhood and the beginning of adulthood. Two halves of the same unpleasant individual. Paul’s hair was short, straight, and he was surrounded by a perpetual whine whenever his mouth was open. Jackson’s was long, unkempt and always sounded like he was just forced awake. They both wore wool jackets and loose brown pants, tied at the waist with a cord.
“Shit,” Jackson groaned.
Paul glared, “Tommy, what was that for?”
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Thomas raised his eyebrows, “Could ask the same. You two were running like headless chickens, you could have knocked someone over.”
Jackson winced as he rubbed his head, “Bite it.”
“Now then” – he hoisted the pair up by their shoulders – “what is going on with you?”
Paul quickly wiped the dirt from his shirt, “All hell has broken loose. Something happened last night out by Parnway. There's a lot of people went missing and a bunch of dead sheep, but not like normal dead, they say something weird happened to the bodies. The mayor is finally giving a big speech. People think it's bandits.”
“Or monsters,” Jackson said.
Paul sighed, “Monsters aren’t real, Jackson.”
“People can’t do what I’ve heard they did to the sheep.”
“True. But on the other hand, Monsters – Are – Not – Real. Do you honestly think witches or something flew out of the woods to brutalise random livestock?”
Jackson gave an annoyed exhalation, “Look. If it were bandits, they would have just killed them with swords or arrows or something” – he shook his hands in circles for emphasis – “something normal. That or they would have just taken them with the people and would be demanding a ransom by now. It makes no sense.”
“But fairies doing it is far more reasonable,” Paul rolled his eyes.
“You don't even have an answer.”
“Oh, like you could even call that an answer.”
Whenever they got started arguing, Thomas felt a tiny part of his brain die. He rubbed his temples to ease the twin-induced headache.
“Bloody stupid,” he mumbled.
“See,” Jackson said with a smug grin on his face, “Tommy believes me.”
Paul snapped, “No. He was calling you a moron, you moron.”
“You’re the moron.”
“Fuck you,” said Paul.
“Fuck you,” said Jackson.
“Idiots,” said Thomas.
The twins became too bogged down in their argument to notice him slip away. Unlike other villages, Orhill was given two idiots instead of one.
He stepped on more toes as the bustle grew tighter. Every step forward was a battle, he almost had to punch his way through. Breaking through the final wall of humanity, Thomas fell into the town square. Speckled black and white tiles twisted into spirals under his boots. Monochrome stems and flowers flowed from one edge to the other. To the left lay the cathedral, an old stone brick box with thin towers capping the corners like bedposts. To the right was the official mayoral residence. Originally just a small dwelling, it was expanded upon over the years, each extension nailed onto the previous. In Front of the mob was the town stage, a low wide elegantly carved Wooden platform, a stone façade lined its front face. It was used for various performances. A central hub for festivals, or in this case whenever a message had to be delivered to the town.
Taking centre stage, attempting to calm the agitated crowd, was the mayor, Mr Francis Gilligan. A short fat old man topped with a large glistening bald spot ringed by ginger curls. His cheeks sported a pair of mutton chops and a large, curled moustache sat under a round red nose. His ceremonial robes sat loose on him, like a child wrapped in a large red blanket.
The stage was swarmed by dozens of screeching heads and pointing fingers. A repetitive whine billowed through the courtyard. Fretting over their dead sheep, their missing loved ones, the fear of future raids, wondering where the lord’s men were.
“What are we going to do?” rang on and on through the crowd.
“Enough!” he stomped his foot, and the stage boomed like thunder. The crowd’s attention was locked on the mayor. “My people,” Gilligan's stage voice was warm and sweet, with just enough bass to have the taste of authority linger after every word, “Are we not good men?” the crowd gave a few slow confused blinks. “I believe so. I believe that Orhill breeds the finest men the sun has ever shined upon. But seeing you like this, even I find it hard to believe.” He began to pace, his hand gesturing to match his cadence. “Look at us. Danger nips at our ankles, and we cry like scared children. And why should we? We should be brave. Our walls are high, and righteous vigour burns brightly within the heart of every man among you. This threat will pass, this is a certainty. But till then we must stay calm, please,” a few murmurs whimper out. Then silence.
Thomas despised Gilligan. To him, he was an embarrassment to the town, a fat spoiled lout. He only got into politics to have constant access to a crowd that he can stroke his ego in front of. His tongue was the only reason he was able to keep his post for as long as he has. He knew how to get a mob’s attention and what they wanted to hear. By the time he is done with one of his speeches, he could throw whatever demand he wanted at them, and they would take it or respond with unenthused complaining at worst.
“People of Orhill, I am sure you are familiar with the rumours that have spread across the county during the week. In the wake of the fallen star, the land has been gripped with supposed vandalism, banditry and disappearances. With how random the claims appeared and the lack of evidence, we were not able to confirm if any of this was true and chalked it up to hysteria. We settled to only increasing the duration of patrols and hoped that any genuine threat would be dealt with by the Count.” Gilligan took a deep breath and sighed. “Unfortunately, we were wrong.”
We.
It was the mayor’s favourite word. Whenever he slacked in his duties, Thomas saw him sprinkle it into his speeches as he shifted as much blame away from himself as he could. As if the whole of Orhill was equally to blame for him not taking the warnings seriously.
“But last night these rumours were confirmed in the worst possible way,” he cleared his throat and clapped his hands twice, “Theodore, if you may.”
With one and then two lumbering steps, a tower of muscle entered the stage from behind. Theo was a brute that everyone tried to avoid, a retired mercenary that the mayor paid to stand close by to lend him some of his physical persuasiveness. He was bald and his body tanned, scarred leather wrapped in blue. A wolf skin was slung over his shoulder. He stood a head over everyone else. Next to the mayor, he resembled a giant. Cradled in his arms was something large and wrapped in a blanket. A hoofed foot that poked out identified it as a sheep. A dead sheep. The animal was stiff, red polka dots covered the blanket where the blood soaked through. The residue seeped off the bundle and clung to Theo's chest, a few drops stained his ashy pants. Theo dropped it, and Gilligan closed his eyes, taking a moment to savour the firm but cushioned thud. He let the sound filter through the crowd to build suspense. With a flick of his wrist, Theo ripped off the blanket with a practised dramatic flair. The crowd gasped at the sight. Nervous murmuring transitioned to confused and enraged shouting.
The animal was mutilated, a mash of disfigurements that Thomas couldn’t make sense of. Its back half was frozen solid, its hind quarters covered in what looked like melted wax. He could see a line where the barely thawing back met the unfrozen, burnt front half. Dotted randomly around were perfectly round scorch marks. Some were pinpricks that barely passed the wool, others made fist-sized chunks that tore into the sheep. In its shoulder, a hole went straight through the carcase.
The mayor gestured towards the remains, “This is the work of butchers, fiends who have slaughtered our flocks and stolen our loved ones.” He turned on his heels and placed his hand on his heart and announced with the flare of an actor, “The horror that has plagued our countrymen has finally struck us. This morning I received letters from his excellency Count Arall Dalfan, he demands answers for these crimes. And I,” he paused for effect; Everything Gilligan did was for reputation and to stroke his ego, Thomas was surprised it didn't take longer for him to cut to the point, “I shall give it to him. Trust in me, and together I promise you, these vermin will meet the might of our hearts and the taste of our steel. They are nothing, merely cowards and lowlifes that work while good men have their backs turned. Once we have them, they will be crushed. This is a fact. They were sloppy and careless, once the dust had settled a neighbouring shepherd was able to follow the path of carnage they had left. He did not see who was responsible, but he knew they fled along a hunting trail towards the heart of Delmerk forest. The cursed ground where it is said the star touched the earth.”
He turned to the crowd, waving an arm as he puffed up his chest for the conclusion of his performance, “The path has been laid for us, but we must strike while the iron is hot! People of Orhill, my brothers, my faithful countrymen, who among you will go on this quest? Who shall venture forth into the Delmerk, confront these monsters that have plagued our lands, and save those loved ones who were stolen from us? Go forth in my name, and under my stewardship not only will you become enriched via the royal bounty, but you will be enriched in your soul, in the eyes of your townsmen and God you will be forever seen as heroes!”
Gilligan stood centre stage, huffing and puffing. His face was calm, but Thomas could tell from his eyes that he was desperate for a response from the crowd. The fat man before him was silently praying that they would clap and cheer at any moment. The attention of the crowd was drawn away from the dramatics and towards the sheep. It began to stink as the sun thawed it. Flies clumsily circled. Orhill returned to the grim reality of the situation. Their loved ones were missing. Bandits were stalking the town's borders. The sheep. Most couldn't look at it without wincing.
“Why would anyone do something like this?” one voice perked up.
“Doesn’t matter why,” another answered, “How do you even do that?”
“How are we meant to fight against that?”
“Where are the Count’s men? Why aren’t they helping us?”
“I’m not doing it. Let the Count deal with it, he has a real army.”
The mob returned to their angry and confused status quo, only now any fear had been replaced with exasperation. None of them could make sense of what they saw and what the mayor told them. First as a trickle and then as a flood, the righteous and faithful sons of Orhill did what they thought was right. Head home and wait for the army to show up.
“My people, please. Come back,” His eyes grew wide as the crowd began to fade, “What of your countrymen? Your duty? Your honour?”
“Shut it!”
Gilligan wiped the sweat from his brow and inspected the remnants, a rag-tag army of hundreds reduced to a few dozen stragglers. A mix of men either too stupid to realise how poorly thought out the plan is or too desperate to refuse the potential reward. Thomas took a sigh of relief as the crowd dispersed.
Then he saw him.
Heading a pack of mongrels that made up the bulk of the remaining crowd was a particularly vile specimen named Rodrick. A squat ape with a snubbed hooked nose, fat ears and a nearly permanent grim that proudly showed his yellowed, broken teeth. His stained white shirt was tucked into his pants. Thomas swore he could taste vomit whenever he was around him.
“Well,” Gilligan sighed, “Now that leaves you lot.” Clearly disappointed with the turnout, the mayor attempted to salvage the situation, “From the bottom of my heart I thank you for doing what is right, to stand up for your fellow man and –”
Rodrick shouted, “Happy to help ya major!”
“It's mayor, mayor Gil –”
“Major neck pain!” he turned to his cohort and was met by snickers.
“Wha –”
“You were saying something? Come on,” Rodrick clapped, “don’t stall, get on with it.”
Gilligan closed his eyes, collecting himself, “Time has fast escaped us, so we must be hasty. All those willing to partake in this important task must gather what you need and return here by the end of the hour. There you shall meet the leader who will guide you onward –”
“Excuse me –”
“Paul! What is it?” Gilligan snapped.
“What did you mean ‘meet the leader’? Aren’t you leading us?”
“Yeah,” Jackson said, “It's your plan after all.”
An embarrassed look rolled across the mayor’s face, “Oh heavens no, I have too much important business here. Besides, if those awful fiends return, the town will require my guidance to add them in its defence.”
Thomas bit his lip, his lack of surprise did nothing to soften the blow.
“Instead, to guide you on your journey will be my beloved son. Junior!” The head of Gilligan the second popped up from behind the stage. Thomas wagered he had been back there the entire speech, waiting for his cue. Junior was only taller than his father because it was impossible to for any man to be shorter. He was button-nosed, clean-shaven and covered in freckles. Without a bald spot, his wavy copper hair could flow uninterrupted. It was constantly blown by the wind in front of his face. He wore a spitting image of the mayoral dress, minus a few gold flashes and the oversized red blanket.
“Greetings! Not to worry, under my care, our journey to beat back these disgusting villainous scoundrels will be successful," he did his best to muster the showmanship of his father. A low groan could be heard. Thomas covered his face, with his father, he could at least find him somewhat entertaining and comedic. To Thomas, however, Junior was simply painful to acknowledge.
There was no second uproar, only a few upset mutterings as half the crowd shuffled away. Barely annoyed enough to make a scene out of it.
It would fail. Thomas thought.
He could picture it all. Gilligan’s merry band would tread off into the Delmerk, get lost and if they are lucky enough to not be mauled by a passing wolf or bear end up killed or captured by the men they sought to kill – or arrest – or chase off – or whatever else the mayor had in mind. He was convinced that it would fail. And at that moment, he was convinced that he needed to help. He knew the forests around Orhill like the back of his hand, and he trusted his tracking abilities over whoever Gilligan was able to browbeat into doing it.
It bubbled to the front of his mind. He shook his head. It stuck. The speech wormed into his brain.
Thomas wondered why he should go. Along with ensuring the group wouldn’t die a pointless death, he could become a local hero, the talk of the town. He would be admired, and there would be a few people who would be happy to see him. He could get a reason to clean his cabin.
⁂
Preparations were finished at the end of the hour.
The band headed to the gate.
Junior led the way, wielding his walking stick like a sceptre. Theo shadowed him, poleaxe slung over his shoulder, ensuring that any command his master gave would be followed to the letter. Rodrick and the pack bumbled about. To them, it was a cheap bit of fun that they were getting paid for. The twins lagged behind and argued over how much money they were going to get. Thomas kept off to the side. He fiddled with the arrows in his quiver.
It was late afternoon and evening was on the cusp, a cold breeze nipped at their skin as stone houses were replaced with open fields, only to be replaced in turn by ever-increasing trees.