Weard hobbled around the village repeatedly in his linen under-tunic, dark grey braies, and black hose. Wandering around in his underwear wasn’t particularly dignified, but then, neither was he.

I can’t explore the plains, there’s no pub, and every time I offer to help the villagers they force nettle tea down my throat instead. If I drink any more, I’ll blister my innards!

Weard limped to the village green. Hrolf had suspended a canvas covering between three poles. Tadhgán and Hrolf were eating bread and goats cheese while rolling a pair of dice into a small wooden tray. The remaining food was stacked on a grey cloth beside the tray.

Tadhgán lounged against a barrel in his fancy black wool tunic with neck and sleeve lace ruffs. He’d lost a little weight over the past three days. His long black hair was tied in a ponytail with a short piece of hemp string.

“Hey Weard,” said Tadhgán.

Weard sat between them and ripped a chunk off the loaf. He pulled his knife from his belt, scooped a generous wedge of soft, fresh cheese, and slathered it onto the coarse bread. He took a bite.

“Gods, that’s good,” said Weard. “Pour me a cup would you?”

“It’s nettle tea,” said Hrolf. He sat cross-legged and slouching in a coarse wool tunic and patched linen hose, his wide leather belt digging into his paunch. Several Drýlic symbols had been carved into it.

I doubt he knows what those symbols mean, probably chose them for their intricate patterns. “Urgh, I’ll pass.” Weard chewed his bread, “Where did you get all the food?”

“Two locals set us up,” said Tadhgán. “I think Hoff asked them to get us out of his house for a bit.”

“I suppose pity has its upsides,” said Weard. He pointed his bread at Tadhgán, “How are you feeling?”

“Itchy,” said Tadhgán. “I don’t think I was designed to climb trees.”

“You throw like a déofol though,” said Hrolf, “I owe him twenty arrows.”

“That should keep you busy,” said Weard. “You’ll have fun trying to find the materials.”

“I don’t have anything better to do,” said Hrolf.

“Whose cast is it?” said Weard.

“Yours, if you like,” said Tadhgán.

Weard picked up the dice and weighed one in each hand. He held one close to his eye. The die had six sides, a smooth texture, and was inlaid with small black shards.

“Ivory and jet, bit rich, where did you get these?” said Weard.

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“They were Arnwald’s,” said Tadhgán. “I forgot to give them back last time we played.”

“Damn. Sorry I asked.”

“He doesn’t need them,” said Tadhgán. “What’s your bet?”

Weard fished in one of his pouches and extracted two paper twists. There was a single oblong shape enclosed within each one.

“What are they?” Hrolf said.

“Sugared almonds, one each. What do I get if I win?”

“I don’t want to know how you acquired those,” said Tadhgán. “Or how long they’ve been in your pocket. I’ll give you my lucky charm.” Tadhgán pulled out a tiny, single-holed stone on a thin, linen string from around his neck, “Arnwald gave it to me.”

“Why would I want that?”

“Hey, it works. See,” Tadhgán pointed at himself, “I’m alive aren’t I?”

“I suppose,” said Weard. “Hrolf, what do you have?”

“Hmm, how about I fix the kettle holes in your clothes?”

“Fine, why not?” said Weard, and rolled. The dice pattered around the tray. They settled on a three and a two.

“Five is main,” said Hrolf. “Roll again.”

Weard blew on the dice and rubbed them between his palms, “You know hazard doesn’t work properly if you don’t bet with money, right?”

“Roll it,” said Tadhgán.

Weard threw a six.

“Alright, that’s your chance.”

“Third time lucky,” said Weard, and rolled again. The dice settled on five, “Bugger, that didn’t take long. I guess your charm does work. Here you go.”

They popped the sweets into their mouths.

“Thanks,” said Hrolf. He crunched down on the almond, “I don’t think I’ve had one of these since I was eleven.”

Weard gave them a rueful grin and dug into his pouch to get a sugared almond for himself. “Consolation prize,” he said.

“Another round?” said Tadhgán.

“I’m out of loot,” said Weard.

“Too bad,” Tadhgán said. “I’d have liked another one.”

Hrolf tucked the dice into a tooled leather pouch. He handed the pouch to Tadhgán, “Here, you keep them.”

“Thanks.”

The three scabby soldiers sat in sombre silence, sweating in the shade. Weard lay on his back, his arm flopped over his eyes.

“I don’t understand this village,” said Hrolf, after about twenty minutes. “Something's wrong.”

Weard snorted, “Burnt buildings, anguished residents, ghostly imprints. Of course it’s bloody weird.”

“I don’t mean the obvious, weird stuff. Something is missing and it scares me.”

“It’s like the villagers are hiding a big secret in plain sight,” said Tadhgán.

“That’s right,” said Hrolf.

“They don’t have anything to hide,” said Weard.

“They do,” said Hrolf. “We just can’t see it.”

“That’s how I know they’re not hiding anything,” said Weard.

“I’m not in the mood, Weard,” said Tadhgán.

Weard sat up, “Really? How’s this for a hint: there’s almost no one between the ages of ten and thirty.”