There are so few of us left, it won’t be long before Dunstead is nothing more than a cemetery. So much decay and so much rot.

With that last thought in mind, Ragnall cast his attention to the sad spectacle before him. The burning of Cecily Fortswarth, a kind ageing woman with more wrinkles than grey hairs. She had been a friend to Ragnall for as long as they’d known each other but that didn’t stop the flames from licking up her skin or the smell of her burning body from filling the air.

Ragnall himself had collected the firewood that now cackled and glowed with the heat of the fire. The cremation would take hours but only once Cecily's body was nothing more than ash would they finally be permitted to bury her remains.

It was not what she would have wanted but every corpse, be it, man, woman or child had to be burnt to ash. The country could ill afford another outbreak. Even Dunstead hadn’t been spared the plague's deadly grip but if Ragnall was honest, the village had been dying long before the plague finally sealed their fates.

Stagnation had killed Dunstead long before the plague hit or when the sea raider shad first started to land on their coasts. Ragnall could remember what Dunstead’s glory days had been, back when he still felt youthful. They had once been a thriving centre of trade with villagers numbering in the hundreds and now, they were nothing more than a ramshackle hobble of twenty.

Where once wooden houses overflowed with life, were now decrepit empty shells. Reminders of what Ragnall once protected, but even if this village was nothing more than a few decaying houses, it was still his duty to protect it. He had sworn an oath to protect Dunstead till the end of his days, a pledge that now kept him trapped here.

Ever since he had taken that oath, he had only left the boundaries of the village a few scant times, an action he would never repeat. And as the last few embers of the flames finally began to disappear into the morning light, Ragnall could finally return back to his watch.

With the clinking of his armour shattering the peaceful silence, Ragnall turned away from the fire and towards others who had come to give their farewells.

Only seven others had managed to face the chilly morning air. Mrs Radstock and her two young pestering sons. They had the same brown hair as their mother but that was about the only qualities they shared, they still had the light of youth in them and a mischievous attitude to go along with it. Their mother on the other hand whilst still relatively young, showed the trauma and pain she had been through.

If Mrs Radstock had forced Arrin and Correy to be here, Ragnall couldn’t be sure but at least they had attended. With the family still watching the dwindling cinders, the villager's protector turned his attention to the other four, they were the village elders but given the average age of Dunstead’s residents that title didn’t mean much. Every one of them looked like a strong breeze would send them toppling over but they all did at least have the strength to clasp Ragnall’s hand in turn before allowing him to pass.

“I fear you shall soon bury us all.” Came the passing dreary remark of Mr Griff. The man was approaching ninety years old, the second oldest villager remaining but given his failing health and terrible cough, he would likely be the next to go.

“It is my duty.” With that Ragnall left the elders to their mourning and continued with his morning patrol. There was a slight frost in the air but thanks to the village's wooden palisade, they were mostly spared from the worst of the weather. Still, the air was chilly and damp, a factor that only added to the rust of Ragnall’s once-proud armour.

He had worn this armour ever since he had started his duty, a habit that he had never given up even if it was likely more of a hindrance than anything now.

But Ragnall was a man of habit and routine, he had refused to give it up even when the now long dead villagers begged him to or when its loud rattling awoke the sleeping children. Those memories were some of the oldest ones he had, the ones he could actually still remember clearly that was.

No matter how much my mind fails me, at least this will never change.

The walk around the village was a route Ragnall had taken countless times, if they had ever gotten around to paving stone floors over the dirt, he was sure he’d have eroded his steps into them. Just as he did every day, he looped around the edge of the village, checking its palisade for breaches. As usual, there were none, only the weathered holes of old wood.

With the wall route taking only a handful of minutes, Ragnall had little more to do than head straight for the village's gates, why patrol long-abandoned houses and industry when all he would find was ghosts better left forgotten. It was the Old Stead inn where they had their first outbreak and they were memories he didn’t want to bring up.

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It is better to let the dead rest.

Even his swordsmanship couldn’t protect his village against such a disease, but what he could do was make sure the rest stayed alive.

A key part of his morning routine was to check on the villagers remaining occupants, he had seen seven today, leaving only twelve more to find and Ragnall had a fair idea of where to find them. Once the village had become little more than a ghost town, the majority of its occupants had moved in together, all taking up residence in the few houses that were still in somewhat good condition.

A quick brief walk took Ragnall from the wall into the centre of the village and with only abandoned shops on either side of the walk, he made the same quick undisturbed progress as usual.

The entire village has an eerily silent air to it and the town centre was no different, despite being the only place where you could find life in the village, it was equally haunted by the decay of the Dunstead.

With his boots starting to sink into the muddy ground as he walked, Ragnall quickly crossed the distance to the Warsop residence. In accordance with the few houses that surrounded it, the frames of the door were beginning to rot and its thatched roof was in dire need of changing. But that was a task that could wait, the few villagers still able to work had far more pressing concerns to deal with than rotting wood.

With a knock that threatened to chip away at the crumbling wood further, Ragnall announced his presence.

“Is everyone accounted for?” Ragnall asked as sternly and clearly as he could.

After a few moments of unwavering silence, a strained voice finally answered him.

“Yes, most of us will be waiting out the cold, but should you see Gareth, tell him the firewood is running low and Adelina’s fever has returned.” After a few harsh coughs, the frail voice continued. “And keep an eye on Arrin and Correy, the little brats are up to something.”

“I shall, is there anything else you all require?” Ragnall replied once the howling of the wind had quietened down enough for him to be heard.

“No, thank you, but don’t be afraid to let Rich know that if he waits any longer the door will have more holes than wood.”

With that another one of Reginald’s daily tasks was completed, all his routine required of him now was to collect his morning rations before taking up his watch at the gate.

Between what he and the able bodies villagers could harvest and forage, there were very few choices of food and as he had for countless other days, Ragnall chose to collect a simple loaf of bread and a singular apple as today's meal of choice.

The bread may have been burnt slightly and the apple close to mouldy but it was the best Ragnall was going to get as he quickly entered and then exited the once proud town hall that now served as the villager's meal house. With his food tucked within a small bag on his waist, Ragnall gripped his sword hilt tightly and continued his brisk empty walk towards the gate.

With the path ahead devoid of all life and only empty buildings in his way, Ragnall finished his journey in a silence only disturbed by the rattling of his armour.

A sound that Ragnall quickly focused out as the village's gate entered his vision, given the crumbling nature of the village, the gatehouse was now the tallest structure still standing but even then it was far from an impressive sight. Made of simple wooden logs wrapped tightly together, the actual gate was flimsy, it would take little effort for a ram to send the gate crashing outwards. A few determined axe men could likely break it down without too much trouble either but the village did at least have a walkway that led on top allowing the gate's defenders to pour streams of arrows and oil down onto any attackers.

Not that we have any oil left.

The gate had seen much better days and had once been a mighty defensible structure but now it resembled the village, old and decaying.

It would need to be rebuilt, Ragnall knew that but they did not have the resources for such an endeavour. Given the turbulent nature of the outside world, Ragnall would have preferred a true stone wall but that was at best a pipedream for him.

With the thought of the village's ever-weakening defences in his mind, Ragnall quickly trotted up the small staircase that led him onto the gates walkway. It was as empty as he’d expected it to be but there were at least a few leftover logs in the brazier. But for now, Ragnall would leave its flames unlit as he picked up his bow from its fixture on the gate's wall and gave its string a few test pulls.

Whilst he had always been a swordsman, his long life in this village had given him enough time to master the bow, there may have only been a handful of arrows in the quiver by his foot, but he could make every one of those count should an enemy appear.

But like every other day in the monotonous routine of Ragnall’s life, he doubted he would need to use his bow. The scene that greeted Ragnall as he looked out over the countryside was the same one he saw every other day. The great forest remained undisturbed just at the far edge of what was the village's boundary, the small hills at the edge of his vision remained untouched and the trees that dotted the landscape between Ragnall and there remained unfelled. Every bush, fauna, and molehill remained exactly as Ragnall had seen it last.

The view was as peaceful and harmonious as always but that didn’t stop Ragnall from fiddling with the hilt of his sword as his eyes peeled the landscape in search of movement. The forest was always a cause for concern, even now as it encroached into the village’s territory, Ragnall was hesitant to enter it. Many of their diseased had been lured and buried in those woods, their corpses were better left untouched and forever undisturbed.

But unlike the great forest, it wasn’t long before Ragnall’s watch was met with its own intrusion.