At first, it seemed as though the storm above had manifested in physical form– punching a hole straight through sodden ground. Men threw themselves to the ground, the cacophony of crumbling earth and braying horses replaced by thousands of ghostly prayers rising from the ground. Panic stilled for a moment, before the earth opened up like a hungry maw; swallowing the private army until all that was left were mangled limbs, twisting upwards like newly-sprouted wildflowers.
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A sheet of rain covered Ebbing in a light mist, its lone chapel standing above the fog; steeple clad in rotting wood struts and paneless window frames. Inside, a dozen men-at-arms stood huddled around a bloody linen scrap covering a hunk of flesh. A shaking hand emerged from the ring of wide-eyed mercenaries, peeling back the wrap and revealing a misshapen human head.
Skin stretched at the jaw, its bottom set of teeth peaking through the lip; dried blood smeared in between the pockets of missing cheek. The head’s eyes had sunken deep into the sockets, rotated, and then deflated into a gooey mess leaving a trail on the chapel’s stone floor.
The tallest man-at-arms, a towering heap of cloth and dented metal, knelt down next to the head and retrieved a parchment from inside his cote.
‘I believe this would be our Baron,’ he said, comparing the head to a charcoal drawing on the parchment, ‘Which I think puts our payment in question.’ Sighing, he stood and removed his sallet, wiping soot and dirt from his brow. An older man, balding on the top and speckled grey beard cut neatly, leaned into the mercenary’s ear, ‘M’lord, we’ve scarcely any money left and at least three weeks from Alstowe. The men can’t survive on bread crusts and cider.’
The older man eyed the head before the taller man replied, scratching a mottled patch of sideburn, ‘Thank you Ser Caister, for now take the men and set up camp fifty paces outside the town limits,’ he said absentmindedly, ‘I’d like to speak to the chaplain privately.’ They each nodded and the company filed out of the chapel wordlessly, leaving the mercenary alone.
I’m beginning to think myself a fool, he told himself. My men are cold and without food, and somehow I’ve led them into some bewitched barony seeping with the accursed. A captain? Bah!
The captain, Ser Gavin Selwood, now suddenly out of employ was no gentlemen, but the threat of poverty struck at a particularly sore part of his heart. He looked around the chapel and thought of his reward for a life of violence, perhaps a nice parcel of land and a wife to warm him.
Children to carry his name and some livestock to keep them fed and their purses full, if he was ever to return home or God forbid retire. He scoffed at the thought, although he had definitely pondered the idea after a glancing blow to the neck or a few too many ales. After, He reminded himself.
A robed clergyman stood from the pews, shaking the captain from his contemplation, he approached the man-at-arms humming a sorrowful tune. The chaplain unclasped his hands, whispering a small prayer and then met the captain’s eyes.
‘I can tell it is not the embrace of God you seek in His home,’ he spoke, ‘Pray tell what you have come for young man, in this dung-heap of all places.’ He lost his holy aura for a moment as he gestured his hounds around the chapel, reseating himself on the pews and inviting the captain to sit.
‘No I’m not here for penance, in fact I’m not entirely sure where exactly we are,’ taking his seat, Ser Gavin joined his hands in prayer, ‘We’d been fighting the Sulleans to the North on behalf of our now deceased Baron.’
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The chaplain thought for a moment, playing with the fabric of his cassock and flicking a pendant of St. Paul. ‘I take it that would be him on my clean floor,’ he smiled, ‘It seems as though there’s something you're not telling me.’ The captain stared sheepishly, mulling over how he could possibly explain what had happened. Divine retribution perhaps, if somehow that came in the form of trembling earth and young men screaming for their mothers.
‘There was a skirmish,’ the captain began, ‘We had cornered the Sulleans, set their wagons ablaze a few days prior and had them cut off from supply lines. They had to starve eventually.’ Ser Gavin got up and paced the room, glancing over at the Baron’s head. ‘They decided to charge us, throw everything they had in a desperate attempt to at least take their pound of flesh.’ He paused to let the chaplain respond, weighing how to describe the gore.
‘And? You’re still standing so I can only assume the result,’ the clergyman prodded, hoping for some entertainment after years of baptisms and confessions. ‘My men had been commanded to escort wagons to the battlefield, but as we arrived.
It… It was like the very ground had opened, swallowing the entire field and chewing the men up like playthings,’ the mercenary recounted, ‘There was soot and malice in the air, like a cold hand running down my spine,’ Ser Gavin approached the head and covered it again, ‘Then we saw the scattering of crushed lances, and Lord Rees’ knights mangled like the tiltyard after a flood.’
The chaplain froze, craning his neck over to the bloody mess on his floor, clutching the pendant around his neck. He met the captain’s eyes and they shared a wide-eyed look, his hands sweating and suddenly itchy. ‘There’s a man you need to see Ser. Urgently,’ he said sharply, ‘He’s a physician, a poor one at that, been here a week. Said some’et the same as you did, only he had too many ales and had lost at dice.’
The pair hurried out of the chapel, the captain glancing over to the newly erected tents outside of town. The rain had mostly clear, a slick shine left on the cobbled exterior of the holy building. Ser Gavin hadn’t noticed the deplorable state of the town on the ride in, less than fifteen buildings and all halfway to collapsing. The town had been built around a well, which now seemed to have largely dried up; empty crates and a small cart stacked on its exterior. Banners from many different lords lay discarded and torn, no one likely to get offended from the disgrace this far from the gentry.
They arrived at a quaint tavern, barely bigger than any other building, that looked like someone had just rolled kegs into their home and opened for business. The chaplain waved Ser Gavin in, the captain ducking his head as he entered.
Inside was filled with a musky smell of smoke and honey, clinging to the walls like chaff on grain. There was scarcely more than ten people, clambered around three tables all playing some variation of a dice game. One table in particular seemed far more upset, two bearded men and another with a smattering of burns across his face. They each had a grave look, the dice clattering over the table; teetering before somehow settling on a side you didn’t expect.
The mercenary approached the proprietor, retrieving a single silver coin from a tattered coin purse which drew the attention of the entire establishment. He placed it on a table that had been dragged to the corner of the room, the owner sitting behind it on a leather trunk. ‘Two of whatever you’ve got messir,’ the captain gestured to the kegs stacked on the opposite side of the tavern, ‘And some bread if you’ve got it.’ The tavernkeep slid the coin towards him, hopped up from the trunk, opened it and flicked the coin inside before grabbing two mugs and waddling towards the kegs.
‘Might be wise to ask him for a price first Ser,’ the chaplain chuckled, ‘Could’ve bought a round for everyone here.’ The captain’s cheeks went rosy and he turned his eyes towards the burned man, watching the game lazily. As the dice rolled on the table once again he felt a pang in his chest and a cold hand go down his spine.
Fear.
His head whipped around the tavern, his heart suddenly racing and a bead of sweat rolling down his brow. Nothing. God, look at me. Trembling from the breeze. He turned back towards the game and found the burned man staring at him, they locked eyes for a moment. The man whispered something, glanced down at the dice as they were rolled again, looked back to the captain and… winked.
Double Sixes.