Rain poured down the shoddy building like a relentless force, causing streams of water leaking into the interior. Gustus was lucky enough to be in his dry spot in the shack, his eyes focusing on Lars. The berserker was still covered in bruises from his last scuffle with that marauder from earlier. He hadn’t spoken at all since then, whether out of inability or pure spite, Gustus did not know.
The former convict looked around the interior of his new home. The roof was on the edge of falling in on itself, which resulted in water being regularly poured down on unlucky men. While any reasonable man would move to a dryer spot, these men were not able to. The shack was filled to its limit, every man in there shoulder to shoulder. They crowded in there, unable to move comfortably or even sleep right. The walls shook every now and then, ready to burst from the sheer capacity.
There was also the stench. Gods, the stench. Gustus much rather preferred to be in his old cell, where it was least limited to only him and Lars. In his old cell, he could at least get a couple of peaceful hours of sleep. Now however, even one minute of peace was a luxury. Constantly, the men would bicker and shout, their voices enough to make the convict go deaf. Gustus tried to count himself lucky, telling himself that at least he wasn’t going to die. At least he wasn’t going to be executed at Norum’s courtyard. Yet he was looking at that alternate life as a luxury. At least then, he would have a decent meal. A decent cot to call his own. A quiet cell he could find peace in. It would be leagues better.
‘At least you’re not dead.’
That was his only hold on sanity. It was the one thing keeping him going. At least he was alive. As Gustus tried to get a couple more seconds of shuteye, the door to the shack slammed open. It caught the attention of everyone. The ex-convicts all went silent, their gaze fixed on the lone figure at the door.
It was that female marauder from last time, Ivana, from what Gustus could remember from his time eavesdropping. The last couple of days here had given the ex-convict time to observe and learn the names of the marauders that kept them all fed and alive. He watched as the female marauder’s face turned to disgust at the shack, her eyes gazing over all of the men.
“Up. All of you. It’s time for eating.”
The shack burst to murmuring and questions, all of them about if what she said was true. Gustus raised an eyebrow at Ivana’s statement. Supper wasn’t for a couple of hours. This was early.
“Shut up,” the marauder called out, silencing the men. “This is a special occasion. Deimos wants to extend his hospitality to his new recruits.” The ex-convicts looked at each other in confusion, but not a single one spoke up. “Follow me,” Ivana ordered.
Slowly, the men in the shack all make their way out the door. Gustus was one of the last to get out, his gaze still focused on Lars. The brutish man was silent, his focus aimed ahead as he walked along the men. The former prisoner followed behind closely, his hands rubbing at his wrists. While he had no more shackles, he couldn’t help but feel as if he was back in the dungeons of Haven.
The crowd of inmates soon arrived at what looked to be an outpost by the sea, its walls built high over the horizon. The large wooden doors at its entrance were thrown wide, showcasing an open courtyard at its center. Gustus peeked over the crowd, his eyes spotting what looked to be a table ahead in the grassy courtyard.
On its wooden surface, wet from the rain, was food. Actual, honest to the gods, food. Not just scraps or rations, but an entire feast's worth. Once he had noticed it, the other men did as well. Sure enough, the single file line of prisoners broke loose. Men pushed past each other to get a piece of the goods on that long table, their shouts overlapping with each other. Gustus was pushed to the wet grass, his body nearly trampled by everyone around.
Still, he managed to slip through the fighting convicts, his smaller frame unnoticeable to those around. Gustus soon made it to the table, where men were fighting over each other for their scraps. The ex-convict grabbed what he could, stuffing as much of it into his starving gullet. He had to avoid those who wanted the food, but other than that, it was easy pickings.
As Gustus ate his fill, men around him had to fight and beat each other down for something as simple as just a leg of turkey. The marauders around the convicts didn’t seem to care at all, most of them keeping their distance. Soon enough, the fighting began to die down, with most of the inmates eating their recovered scraps while others groaned with bruises on their face and bodies. Gustus was under the table during all of it, his hands full with mashed potatoes and chicken breast. Granted, they had been drenched from the constant rain, but the man took what he could. As he finished up his meal, a voice called out to the courtyard.
“Attention all! If I would have your attention,”
The voice was deep and charismatic in a way, the source of which Gustus instantly recognized. He peeked from beneath the table. Sure enough, the Red Death of the North stood over them all, his imposing figure standing on a balcony that overlooked the courtyard. The man himself struck a sense of fear into the ex-convict. The demanding presence of Deimos was enough to force Gustus and everyone around to to watch and listen attentively.
The Red Death grinned as he raised a hand to the men below him. “You are the worst of the worst. The rejects. The forgotten. The exiled. All of you were headed your way to be executed. At least, that was your life a month ago.” Deimos gripped the balcony railing. “Now you are here, rescued by my hand.” The men in the courtyard all looked at each other. While it was true they had been saved, there was an air of unease. No one knew what Deimos wanted from them all. Until now.
“For those who question why they are here. Let me be the first to tell you.” The Red Death gestured to the table below, where it had been home to the banquet of food from before. “This feast here is only a taste of what I offer. A new life awaits ahead, its future full of promise and wealth.” The marauder’s words seem to excite the former inmates. Their eyes glinted with greed and want, signs that Deimos was appealing to them. Gustus himself felt a bit of excitement at the prospect of this future. He was a bandit before his imprisonment, his scores barely enough to keep him fed at times. This offer from Deimos was something tantalizing, especially since the Marauders of the North were more than competent in keeping their promises.
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“However…” Deimos’ grin slowly faltered. His change in tone struck a sense of dread in the air. “No such luxury is gained with ease. You must work hard for it. You must be able to fight for it.” He raised a demanding fist. “In order for us to harvest from such a garden of wealth, we must first pull the weeds that threaten weakness and inability.” Deimos’ opened his palm, before he swiped it. The marauders around the courtyard threw weapons into the courtyard, all of them ranging from daggers to warhammers. Gustus stared at the glint of sharpened steel, his gut lurching at the thought.
“There will be no weakness allowed,” Deimos called out coldly. “One hundred men have entered this courtyard. Half of you shall leave here as true marauders. Until then, the doors shall be locked.” As if to punctuate his words, the doors that led into the courtyard slammed shut. Gustus quickly stood from his sitting position. All the men around were staring at each other in confusion, as if they didn’t hear right. Gustus however, knew exactly what Deimos was implying. His eyes settled on the dagger that stuck out from the grass and wet dirt. Without saying anything, the ex-convict sprinted to the weapon.
All hel broke loose.
Gustus had barely grabbed his dagger when everyone around him burst into action. Just as he turned around, he was met with the sight of an incoming spear. Thankfully, the sharpened tip only managed to graze his thigh, leaving only a gash behind. The inmate looked up to the attacker that had tried to stab him. Before Gustus could react however, the attacker was suddenly tackled by a larger man, his spear flying out of his hand.
Gustus kept his weapon close to his chest, his feet kicking himself away from the center of the courtyard. However, he would not be able to reach the outskirts. Marauders with spears held off any man attempting to cower into the corners. Arrows were shot at anyone trying to escape or cower in secluded spots. It seemed as if Deimos had made sure no one would be able to escape nor wait it out.
Gustus quickly moved to avoid another attack, this time from a poleaxe aimed for his head. The attacking inmate tried to strike at Gustus once more, but the smaller man was quicker. His dagger sank into the convict’s exposed belly, the sound enough to make Gustus sick. Still, he pressed on. Gustus forcefully yanked his blade out from the dying man, before he stabbed the throat to fully finish the job. His hands shook sporadically as he did so, the blood from the kill staining the mud of the courtyard.
The fight did not end there for poor Gustus unfortunately. Men around him hacked and stabbed at each other, blood flying and staining everything as the heavy rain attempted to wash it all off. An inmate tried to escape, but he was quickly gutted by awaiting spears. A terrified convict tried to cower underneath the table, but he was dragged out by bloodthirsty inmates. A man managed to get past the spears and tried to climb the walls, but he was shot down by archers.
Gustus was in the midst of it all, slashing and stabbing at anyone who got too close. His arms and legs burned with wounds, his torso riddled with cuts. Yet he pressed on, doing his best to hide among the bodies whenever he was given the chance. Still, he didn’t plan on spending too long in the mud. Others had the same idea as him, but they were spotted out by archers and shot to death. Hiding out for too long painted a deadly fate for him.
Gustus quickly moved to subdue a man who had his back turned, quickly stabbing at the exposed areas. He struck at his ribs, his stomach, and neck area, hoping to get a fatal wound in the process. His target fought back, both inmates soon tackling each other in the bloody marsh. Gustus kicked and punched like a mule, doing his best to gain the upper hand. Both men struggled to get on top, their hands fighting for the dagger.
In the end, Gustus won the bout. He pinned the man to the ground with his weight, his dagger slicing through the soft flesh that was the inmate’s throat. The man below him struggled and fought for a bit, but he soon gave up, his body slowly going limp. Gustus shakily pulled away from the body, focusing instead on surviving rather than the horrible deed he had committed. Just as he managed to get his bearings once more, a hammer came swinging at him.
The inmate rolled away from the oncoming attack, the hammer’s end speckling dirt and blood everywhere as it hit the dead man from before. Gustus looked at the attacker, his heart dropping at the sight.
Lars was above him, his hands carrying a warhammer. The berserker swung down once more, aiming to kill the downed inmate. Gustus quickly backed away from the oncoming hammer. Without so much as a yell, Gustus quickly moved to stab at Lars. His dagger only glanced off the bigger man’s torso, doing nothing more than making him bleed.
Lars growled as he threw Gustus back, his hammer raising. Gustus tried to move, to run, but he kept slipping on the mud. In a desperate attempt, he grabbed his knife by its edge. Without anything else to lose, Gustus threw his knife at Lars. The dagger spun in the air, its steel stained by dirt and blood. It struck Lars in his eye but not in the way Gustus hoped for. Instead of its sharp edge stabbing through flesh, its blunt handle merely blinded the berserker. Lars had started to swing when it struck, his arms shifting slightly. The hammer’s end instead slammed into the cold mud next to Gustus’ head.
“You little–!” Lars was cut off by a loud horn that sounded out. Still, the berserker didn’t care. Lars attempted to lunge at Gustus with his own dagger, his eyes full of rage. He would not be able to do anything to the terrified inmate. Marauders came into the courtyard, using their spears to ward off the violent man. More marauders stormed the bloody hellscape that was the yard, the black steel of their armor glinting from the rain. They restrained inmates and warded them off each other, their shouts indicating that Deimos’ trials had ended.
Gustus was picked up by one of the marauders. He tried to stand right, but his knees were weak and wobbled. As he was dragged off, his eyes stared at what used to be the courtyard. Corpses riddled the bloody marsh, spears and swords sticking out of them. The fletching of arrows were visible among the post carnage, the bodies they belonged to all piled up at the walls. The rain still poured down like a never ending curse, washing off the blood that stained the walls and weapons. Yet Gustus felt dirty. The feeling of blood on his hands was still there, despite the water that had washed it off.
The inmate looked up at the balcony that overshadowed the courtyard. He caught the gaze of Deimos, who had been watching the chaos. The Red Death had no expression visible upon his face, as the shadows of the dying day hid his features. Yet Gustus could swear that he was smiling.