Numisley was toppled to the ground.
Palden restrained Cultrost. The red Satyr’s body seemed to pulsate with rage, with every fiber of his body wanting to physically reprimand his brother. A single drop of blood dripped from his sharp red nose towards his blackened lips. Yet his struggling abated as he looked at his brother with cold fury as Numisley propped himself up with great effort.
“Y-you know I hate this as much as you do!” Numisley reprimanded.
“Then tell them to stop! Right now!” Cultrost argued. “We don’t have to ransack their village! There must be another way.”
Cultrost was still in disbelief even when Numisley told them that the hamlet was too poor to trade food with them. The days of starvation had gotten to them both.
“If there’s another way, I wouldn’t have ordered them. You heard Palden! The nearest settlement is three days away!” Numisley hammered his point.
“Then why shouldn’t we hunt and forage?” Cultrost’s words simmered from his mouth.
“Because we have a dozen people to feed with less coin! Us included! Those aren’t easy unless you have the Role and Feats for that! Unless we know this land? Would they want to delay the journey to do that?” Numisley furiously explained. “This is the problem with you! You don’t think!”
Proverbial smoke rose from Cultrost’s pointy ears. Instead of calming down, he clawed the air. Palden struggled to hold him back.
“I don't think? I. Dont. Think?” Cultrost repeated the three words like a curse. “I know that I’m not as good at counting coins as you. I know that I’m an idiot compared to you. But you know what? I’m smart enough to know that murdering people is bad. Ever since Atasaney–”
“Stop! That’s it!”
Palden’s heavy voice silenced the bickering brothers.
“That’s enough. Both of you!” Palden reprimanded. “What’s done is done.”
-
The cloaked [Mercenaries] marched under the rain, toward the hamlet decimated by beasts and famine. They had already fought off the beasts that had ravaged their tiny hamlet and had suffered for it. The subsequent famine had decimated what was left of the population; starvation indiscriminately reaping the lives of men, women, and children without regard. They construe these events as divine punishment for whatever theological statute they thought they broke, so they sacrificed the corpses of their dead once people hoarded anything edible. Even crumbs of bread and the leather of their shoes were not spared from their desperate consumption, and even now, they raised their tongues to the heavens that gave them rain.
The few who can still fight despite their grumbling bellies steeled themselves against the scavenging [Bandits] that marched towards them; they have nothing to lose, not even their lives despite being armed with nothing other than farm and kitchen tools, if not spears, axes, and bows. Many were boys and young men, whose only weapons were sharpened wooden sticks and clubs made from table legs, throwing their roughly sewn satchels of bricks and stones they picked up from the rubble.
The one who led them pointed his steel sword at them that seemed to gleam silver.
“We do not wish to harm you. If you do not fight, we will not kill you. We only need your grain and water.” Graten spoke in his slowest Torregornian, his tone as gentle as a feather to avoid agitating the villagers.
Someone threw a brick towards Graten, which narrowly missed him.
Yulvres stepped forward, pulling the foreign [Mercenary Captain] back.
“In the name of His Holiness Bishop Andorlorici Belor, we will requisition your supplies.”
Yulvres had falsely spoken the name of the cardinals who hired them as sanctioned [Mercenaries]. Without a Writ of Purpose, it is the only thing that they can do.
The villagers heard the Torregornian word for "Bishop", and they started talking among themselves, in a tongue neither Graten nor Yulvres could comprehend.
Yet one of them threw a brick toward one of their men, gravely hitting them in the forehead.
"Subdue them," Graten spoke.
Arrows and stones flew towards them. Yulvres blocked with his shield and Graten parried the projectiles. The [Mercenaries] had long learned to dodge and duck from missiles because of their battle experience. Even if they get hit, they armor themselves with gambesons. From their battles, they have more than one defensive Feat too.
Graten cut the wooden bow of the nearest [Hunter] and hit his nose with the sword's pommel, knocking him down. Yulves cut down the shaft of a villager's spear. It was no battle, but a mass robbery where the rest of their men kicked down houses and upturned furniture and floorboards to find every piece of uneaten food within hidden barrels, tattered sacks, and clay jars.
Even with makeshift weapons, the destitute defenders did not have the battle experience and the Feats of the [Mercenaries]. None of them had seen wars between people with Feats. It was like desperate dogs bullying sheep.
This became clear to Germio, who only watched as his comrades did what they had to do. He simply walked among the chaos of battle, avoiding fighting the villagers. and staying at the rear.
Despite that, a young boy missed his strike. His father’s sword swung aimlessly in the air. Germio stepped back, pointing his spear toward him.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“Please, don’t make me hurt you,” Germio spoke.
A wail from nearby pierced his ears. He saw the body of one of his comrades tumble out of someone’s home. An arrow had pierced his left eye in a fountain of blood. One of them had a wooden wand with a stored [Firebolt] spell and smoked out the woman who loosed that arrow. She ran out of the house, set aflame by the spell. Germio saw her martyrdom bolster the villagers; inflamed by rage and courage.
The boy’s sword lit with a golden light for a second. A wound opened on his left thigh. A Miracle manifested. Retribution dawned upon him. He weakly parried the amateurish swing, but before he could say anything, a bolt pierced the boy’s head. He did not see who let loose that bolt, yet he watched as the fighting grew fiercer. The villagers somehow manifested Miracles, turning the tides of battle in their favor. Their makeshift weapons became sharper, glowing with silver light. He saw some of his comrades freeze in place for a moment, allowing the villagers to strike some of them down.
As a [Lay Priest], Germio heard of stories about Miracles manifesting through desperate times; when a divine law of their land has been broken. When a [Lord] abuses his role as a judge and enforcer of laws, lightning will strike him down. When commoners rebel against the [King], they will be immolated with divine flame. The Divine Decree is impartial when it comes to retribution.
Now, they are on the other side of it. At this rate, this fighting cannot be stopped. Violence begets more violence. His comrades stopped holding back. Even with the villager’s newfound Miracles, they are still no match for experienced [Mercenaries].
They were the savages against civilization. They were the ones that he preached against. They were not the sanctioned [Mercenary] band who dirtied themselves for the clergy, for the greater good of their kingdom. He fell to his knees, his faith leaving him behind.
He saw it. He saw a part of his identity being erased. A line etched across the written words of his very soul. With each ponderous stroke upon the pages of his identity, the culmination of his struggles, it seemed to be disappointed with his lack of faith.
[Role - Lay Priest, rescinded.]
[Miracle - Lesser Banishment, rescinded.]
[Miracle - Cure Lesser Wounds, rescinded.]
[Feat -
Germio did not heed the bow pointed at his heart from a distance. The young [Hunter] let loose the arrow that pierced the former [Lay Priest]’s heart. Germio saw the arrow flying, and he spread his hands in a final prayer, even as the pain pierced his chest for a moment before his world faded.
At some point, the fighting ended. Yulvres ordered his men to move the corpses far from the hamlet and bury them with Germio’s priestly rites so that they wouldn’t become undead. He went to find Germio to perform the rites of purification, just to make sure that they wouldn't rise again. He stopped in his tracks as he saw Germio’s corpse, next to a dead village boy.
“No.”
Disbelief billowed from Yulvres’ speech. Among all of his men in the mercenary band, Germio was the only person he least expected to die. Graten silently stopped behind the fellow [Mercenary Captain] before he could say anything. He knew the pain very well, and it hurt him to tell the news.
“Three. Three people.”
Yulvres turned around to Graten.
“Four, now.” Yulvres spoke grimly.
“I wish we could give them a proper burial. But we have to burn the bodies. So we wouldn't be responsible for an undead outbreak.”
They said nothing after that. Yulvres kneeled to give a short prayer to his late lieutenant, before solemnly carrying his corpse to the pile of corpses and straw. They didn’t have the luxury of having silver dust or plants to nullify death magic. They were reliant on Germio for the rites of purification and other things that require a [Priest]’s touch.
Yulvres’ men saw Germio one last time before a torch lit the pile aflame. Graten and his men watched solemnly and whispered prayers of their own; even if they have different gods and beliefs.
Graten laid down the loot they had taken on a wide sheet of cloth that they found in one of the houses. There were scattered pieces of grain, crops, and roots. Nothing more. Dozens of corpses for pieces of grain; a feast poorer and filthier than what peasants eat. There were also other items like pots, coins, chests, and bottles that they could use. There are some things that they wouldn’t have found otherwise, without the pillaging-Feats of some of their members.
As if the heavens played a cruel joke upon them, the skies parted way for the sun to shine over their disgraced faces.
-
Numisley saw the rain finally stop, after days and nights of downpour. The sun shone upon him with harsh light, the clouds parting like the slow opening of curtains. He saw the smoke of the burning bodies at a distance. He saw their [Mercenaries] carrying little than he expected. On Graten’s hands is a single small sack of food, and the others brought firewood and other items they pilfered from the hamlet. Cultrost noticed four people didn’t return with them; Germio being one of them. The other three were people he didn’t know that well.
“Here.”
Graten showed the sack of grain, bread, and other dubiously edible foodstuffs, some of which were still soggy, rotten, or both. Numisley was disappointed by the results, but they were results nevertheless. If they rationed it enough, they might last a day at best; especially when there are four people less than before.
When did he begin to think like that?
Numisley’s finger twitched at the thought.
“Good work.” Numisley weakly spoke. “Let’s rest at the hamlet. Or what’s left of it. We haven’t been sleeping anywhere decent.”
Cultrost held back his words. His objections were overwhelmed by his desire to sleep under a roof and a decent bed. The rest of the group agreed and dragged themselves back to the hamlet despite their fatigue. Numisley and Cultrost saw the pile of bodies splayed out, their hollow sockets seemingly staring at them, their stretched jaws screaming soundlessly.
Numisley and Cultrost went into the largest house, out of the three remaining buildings still standing. This was the bed of the former [Village Head]. They shared the remaining bed in the former owner’s room like they had done before when they only had one room and bed to share in their former home.
Numisley kept waking up with a sweat in the middle of the night. He didn’t mind Cultrost’s snoring; he was used to it anyway, nor how cramped it gets whenever Cultrost moved. He saw a familiar face outside of the window. Atasaney’s face bled through his orifices. Then, Palvt and the others who died because of them.
In the end, he is guilty, no matter how much rationalizing he does.