The horses walked slowly and Sunday tried to stand tall under the scrutinizing gazes of all those who were leaving their homes to take a look at the two of them. This village was a proper village, nothing like the one in the swamp had been, and by the time they reached the central square, there was quite a crowd following them. Even more were gathering up front, as if their arrival was some large event.
Most of the houses were built of stone and wood and had second floors and porches. One could tell almost with a glance what those living in each house did, as various implements were left in front, and craftsman symbols hung above the doors. There were quite a few gardens too, colored purple and red as those were the flowers most often used to make the famous flower wine.
Sunday felt a funny feeling. Scouring the streets and stealing for twenty-plus years and now he was playing the hero – the ‘better’ man coming to save the day of the normal folk with a badge on his chest.
More importantly, he needed them to tell tales of his deeds. That meant no small deeds. To affect the result, he needed to leave an impression, to make a name for himself that would echo in time and not be a one-off thing. There was poetry in that, but he was no poet so he ignored it.
A fat man dressed in too much silk and furs for the comfort of any self-respecting person parted the crowd like a great whale would part a crowd if it had legs and a bus to catch. Sunday eyed the glistening rings on his fingers and the heavy pouch on the side of his all-encompassing stomach and smiled a wolfish grin. It has been a while, certainly. I’ve been too careful in this life. I guess running a village is a lucrative business.
Two tall and strong men in black clothes were flanking him, and everyone gave them a wide berth. It seemed that worlds changed, but not those plaguing them.
“What may I do for you?” the large man asked curtly without introducing himself. His attitude surprised Sunday, but then again, the crowd wasn’t looking too friendly either. Most were looking worried but few gazes filled with unrestrained dislike told him a lot.
The clerk giving out tasks had mentioned the job seemed easy but that it could be troublesome for someone like Sunday. He now understood what the man had meant. The badge of the Arcanum was hung on his cloak – or at least a cheap copy of it. He had been provided with a few just in case. The real thing was snugly resting in an inner pocket added to his pants. Somehow, he doubted it was the issue.
“We heard you have a problem, and we’ve come to solve it,” Sunday said with a tone like the unsheathing of a blade. It had been mutually agreed that he would do the talking. It was only proper, as he was the mage and he needed to weave this tale.
“On whose authority?” the fat man asked. He eyed the badge on Sunday’s cloak but still held his own and stared defiantly. Is this how we’re going to play it? Then again, I don’t want to be famous for going belly up at the first sign of trouble, nor do I want some weird bonus when I do good.
Sunday smiled and using all the grace he could muster dismounted his horse. He looked around with a cold gaze, making sure he met as many pairs of eyes as he could. Most averted their gaze, but few returned it calmly, including most of the injured.
There was not a single undead in the crowd. It was something that further fueled the uneasy thought in his mind. Was this another case of anti-undeath sentiment, or was it something else? Suile’s story had been enough to rattle him, but having made a whole village just to escape the undead? That was silly.
There were a few men covered in bandages that were already showing signs of being unable to stop the bleeding. All of them looked strong and well-built. Hunters or woodcutters perhaps. The one that seemed the most hurt was leaning on the woman next to him, using an axe as a cane. His leg was wrapped up heavily and there was a wooden plank attached to it below the knee. Why is he out here?
“You’ve issued a task to the Arcanum and paid the fee. And I am who they have sent to deal with whatever’s causing you trouble.” Sunday cooly said. “Have you wasted our time and your gold?”
The man squinted his beady eyes and straightened his spine, making his large frame pop out even more. He was still a bit shorter than Sunday and his two bodyguards, so that didn’t count for much.
“We need no undead to fix our problems for us,” the man said with a scowl as if he had stepped into something disgusting.
“Ah,” Sunday stepped closer and noticed Vyn shuffle uncomfortably on top of his horse. “I’m sorry sir, is me being a little dead a problem? Do I smell funny to you? Or perhaps you’re worried it's contagious?” he asked. The distance was now almost nonexistent and if Sunday wanted he could poke the man in the large stomach just by bending his wrist. He didn’t, but he could.
The bodyguards shuffled with discomfort. Sunday knew the type. They were big and scary, and this was a remote place removed from city life, so they were the wolves here. Now though, in his face, they saw a bear that feared no wolves.
The fat man’s face grew red and a few beads of sweat seemed to grace his forehead. “We’ve no wish to mingle with your kind even if the city allows you to live there. Go tell them to send someone else.”
Does the Arcanum’s name carry so little weight? I guess it’s not only my reputation that will be growing after this.
Sunday nodded. “I understand. You’ve decided to be difficult,” he turned toward the crowd. “I offer healing to the hurt, and all I ask in return is your cooperation.”
“Healing? You? Didn’t you hear me rot muncher? I speak for everyone when I say be gone!” the fat mayor hissed.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Sunday spun on his heel in a now very familiar motion and landed a beautiful slap on the man’s plump face. He felt the flesh give and the force that traveled through. There was preternatural strength in the attack, and he had made sure to put a lot of feeling into it. Not enough to kill or break something, but enough to reform.
Be slapped and rise anew, a better man, a moral man, a man of great character.
The bodyguards seemed to find their courage as their owner fell heavily on the ground. They stepped forward only to scramble backward again as a moth as black as night appeared before Sunday. He had noticed that the living had quite the good sense to stay away from his spell’s manifestation. Just like the ghouls had treated the white moths as an insurmountable wall.
“Now, now. I’m not here to execute anyone, but I assure you that slaughtering a few greedy pigs is not beneath me,” Sunday said with a dark smile. The moth rose in the air and started circling, while he knelt next to the weeping mayor. He was mostly fine, but a slap hurt mostly the insides of a man with a large ego.
Most eyes followed the moth, and people seemed uncertain whether they should run or watch the show.
“I think we started on the wrong foot,” he said and patted the man’s fat stomach with great care. “We don’t want to do that again, do we?”
The man shook his head.
“Now you won’t bother us again while we do our job, will you?”
Another shake.
“And you will finally learn your place and stop treating this place like a kingdom with you as its king?”
Hesitation, then a nod.
“Good.” He didn’t believe a single jiggle of fat, but it was a start.
Sunday rose, not giving another glance to the pathetic mess of a man, and eyed the crowd. “My word stands, I’ll heal the wounded, and all I ask for is information so I can deal with the problem. Now, who will be nice enough to bring me two buckets of clean water?” The black moth above flew down and landed on his palm before disappearing, and Sunday felt a bit of the essence come back to him.
There was only brief hesitation until two wary men brought the water before Sunday and quickly rejoined the crowd. He smiled at them and they walked away faster. Without much fanfare, he poured half a flask of his healing wine into each bucket. It was potent and the wounds seemed mostly surface level although the man with the brace worried him.
There were some puzzled looks around the crowd and whispers. Sunday was pretty sure he heard the word ‘alchemist’ muttered a few times, which was something he didn’t mind.
Beware of the scary boogeyman from another world. I’ll heal you and deal with your problems! Violently and with booze!
“Now then. We can get to healing, who will go first?” Sunday smiled. The mayor and his goons were no longer among the crowd, having fled somewhere, but no one reacted or moved forward. Come on now, don’t be shy.
“Allow me,” Vyn said from the side. He had busied himself tying the horses to a nearby post and was now calmly standing next to Sunday. He drew his sword halfway. Sunday could have stopped him from dragging his palm over the sharp edge, but didn’t. Vyn was a grown man and not a child that needed watching over. Plus, if it was a demonstration they needed, then that was just great.
Red blood blossomed and started filling Vyn’s cut palm. He showed it to the villagers and even moved closer for them to see the open wound. There were no signs of discomfort on his face. Sunday praised him in his mind. He knew his job as the lead act’s aide and seemed to be growing more comfortable in his new role by the day. The human’s recent behavior was a far cry from their first meeting.
“What do I do?” Vyn asked.
“Take a bit with your free hand and splash it on the wound. It should do the trick,” Sunday instructed. Good brother, you’ve earned your fair share of drinks.
Vyn did just that and as the water droplets slowly fell on his wound there was immediate change. Sunday could feel the concentration of life essence in the water so he knew it would be many times more potent than what he had done in the swamp. Was it a peculiarity of the spell to prefer alcohol or something else?
It took mere seconds for the wound to close without even a scar remaining. There were gasps and murmurs of confusion coming from the crown and a minute later the one with the makeshift brace hobbled forward, supported by a woman.
Blessed be thee who drink from the waters I drowned my moths in. This will do wonders for my ego. Who knows, they might start worshipping me? Dealing with wounds and racism with only a slap and some wine.
“I’ll try it,” the man said with a hoarse voice. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a while and there was sweat covering most of his visible skin. Sunday noticed a hint of bandages under the shirt as well.
Sunday nodded. “A brave man. All you have to do is pour some of the water on the wounds. Maybe drink some as well, in your case.” He looks like he’s running a fever... Look at me, acting like a true doctor.
The two got to work quickly. Someone brought a small chair taken from a nearby porch and the man sat with a grunt. The leg was up first and Sunday narrowed his eyes as the bandages were removed. Familiar gashes were covering the flesh, and they were already festering. The size of the wounds was wrong, but even now he had a few of the ghoul claws tucked in his belt to serve as lockpicks in emergencies. Could it be?
The woman used a clean cloth to gently squeeze some water on the wounds and the healing quickly started. The man sighed with relief. Everyone else watched the scene with quiet wonder as if Vyn’s demonstration was nothing but a trick.
Sunday waited until the man looked much better and most of the major wounds were taken care of, although the question burned inside of him.
“What did this to you?” he finally asked.
The man met his eyes with no fear nor enmity. Rather, there was gratitude in them which made Sunday a bit uncomfortable. He had hoped for there to be someone to heal, so he could perhaps make his spell more potent by utilizing his talent. He didn’t want gratitude. Boosting the effect of Savage Healer and changing the title to affect his moths would be enough.
“Ghouls,” the man said making Sunday’s eye twitch. “Wild starved ghouls.”
“I see… Has that happened before?” Sunday asked calmly. Many were once again watching him intently as if searching for a slip-up and for a reason to doubt him. Because I’m undead?
“No. Wild ghouls don’t come near settlements nor have they ever come so close to the city. We managed to kill a few before they fled…”
That got Sunday’s attention. He could see the man before him go toe to toe with one or two of the swamp ghouls, if lucky. His book had listed quite a few variations, as they seemed to pop up in places of rot and concentrated death essence. Like some of the spells mentioned in the book too.
“Apart from the worshipper that killed himself, there have been no other accidents,” the man shook his head. “He said something though…” the man fell silent and looked toward a woman in the crowd and the rest did too.
Sunday once again felt the invisible sense of chill wash over him. Wasn’t anything in this new life of his going to be simple?
She stepped forward, her face a cold mask of indifference. “His last words were ‘Tell the one with the red eyes…’ she choked on the words but no one stepped forward to comfort her. A moment later she gathered herself. “He said ‘Tell the one with the red eyes to smile.’”
For fuck’s sake. He turned toward Vyn, “We might have to stay the night.”
At least the full coin pouch of the mayor tucked in his pocket brought him some warmth.