Dark Age Year 871
Twenty second day of the Third month
As night descended upon the village of Golden Apple, so did the dark clouds that had been distant, now looming overhead like a suffocating blanket, obscuring the starlit sky. The moon’s blue hue gave way to a murky grey, and rain cascaded from the heavens, with only the dim glow of candlelight and hearths flickering in the houses of the few residents still awake at this late hour. To some, the scene held a sombre beauty, especially for those with a melancholic disposition. Tharos, perched on the rooftop of a three-story shop, surveyed the village below. Though not as tall as he would have liked, the vantage point afforded him a clear view of most of the village. From here, he could detect any potential threats before they materialised. The abandoned shop had been left deserted since its previous owners passed away a few years ago. With no next of kin, Nico, the village elder, took ownership of the property and used it as a makeshift storehouse. They stored weapons, armour, and other valuables they couldn’t carry from encounters with random bandits or mercenaries. Tharos didn’t mind; most of the loot they acquired wasn’t valuable or useful to them. He believed it was better for the villagers to benefit from these items, especially considering the current events. The weapons and armour they looted would be most useful in the hands of the villagers if the village came under attack.
Nico has done quite well for himself, especially as the head of a village like this. Almost too well. Either he is quite lucky, or perhaps there is something else to it.
Tharos contemplated silently. Nico’s recent acquisition of new property wasn’t inherently unusual, given that luck and fortune could be a rather fickle mistress. However, Tharos sensed a discrepancy but couldn’t pinpoint it. He harboured suspicions about Nico but lacked sufficient details to substantiate them beyond a mere intuition. Yet, his intuitions had a track record of being accurate in the past.
He stood on the roof, as still as a statue, with hawk-like features exuding tranquillity and peace, resembling a body at rest. The rain drenched his hair and clothes, with drops bouncing off his armour in a soothing pitter-patter. The cold seeped into his dark, tanned skin, sending a chill deep into his bones. While he found this sensation unpleasant, he also missed it. Rain was rare in Zarbar, and even during his travels through the Deadlands and Borderlands, it was not common. He welcomed this change, savouring the cooling rain and wind that kept his mind sharp.As Tharos surveyed the village, he heard faint noises below him. It sounded like someone heavy climbing a wooden ladder that could barely support their weight. The creaking of the ladder and heavy footsteps, though muffled by the rain, grew louder. The noise stopped in the middle of the roof, and Tharos sensed a familiar presence. Turning his head, he saw Rayner emerging from the trap door that led to the roof of the shop, which had been left open. Rayner stood there with a bored expression, becoming as waterlogged as Tharos. However, unlike Tharos, Rayner emitted a strong odour, reminiscent of a wet dog.
It’s a good thing I’m used to that smell; otherwise, he would be unbearable. Tharos thought to himself before addressing his companion. “Do you need something from me?” he asked, crinkling his nose.
Rayner chuckled softly. “No, unless you have a remedy for this boredom.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t have one. Unless you’d like me to educate you on table-side etiquette while we wait for the enemy. Your manners could use some work,” Tharos suggested.
Rayner scoffed, “I am a warrior, Tharos. The day I concern myself with such matters is the day I perish. A warrior only needs the strength of their sword arm and the determination to see it through.”
“That is partially true, but I respectfully disagree. Being a warrior encompasses more than just wielding a sword. What about an appreciation for the arts, music, and the joys of life? Anyone can wield a sword and bring death, but true strength lies in embracing all aspects of life,” Tharos asserted confidently. His tone was as cool and composed as the nightly wind and as refreshing as the rain that surrounded them.
“A warrior without depth is merely a tool, easily discarded when no longer needed. How can a blade stay sharp without being honed by experience?” Rayner briefly turned his head to the side and cast a curious glance at Tharos, his expression resembling that of a curious dog. It was a rare departure from the usual large smiles or masks of rage that Rayner often wore.
“Well, you see, the key to preventing such decay is to maintain a sense of culture, or in simpler terms, to have a hobby outside of warfare. There is much to be gained and learned from engaging in such activities as a warrior like yourself. For example…” Tharos continued, pausing briefly to emphasise the upcoming point. “Consider Elven warriors, for instance. They often dedicate themselves to studying and mastering the arts, such as music and painting, in addition to honing their combat skills. You may wonder why they do this. The answer is straightforward. Through painting, they develop control and precision in their movements; through music, they understand the rhythm of life, knowing when to be calm like ice and when to unleash fiery passion. I believe a warrior of your calibre can recognise and appreciate the value in that.”
“Ugh,” Rayner sighed, letting out a loud snort. “We wilders don’t need things like that. Leave that for the prissy elves or those yellow-skinned runts from Kenshi.”
“As you are so famous for saying, it is truly a shame. I read in a book that your people are renowned for producing many warrior poets. I was hoping you would share some of those tales with us.”
“You sound like the milk drinker Yasnir,” Rayner said, his tone irritated.
“Is he a friend of yours? The way you mention his name, I assume not.”
“He was one of the warriors who served with me during my Rayner Raiders days. He was a short man with a strong sword arm. Unfortunately, he often prioritised chasing skirts or writing sonnets over honing his sword skills,” Rayner explained. Tharos raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Rayner’s first-hand account of his mercenary days. Despite travelling together for two months, Rayner had been reticent about sharing details of his past exploits. Tharos listened intently, eager to learn more about Rayner’s history and experiences.
“He took an axe blow that was meant for me and died. If he had focused on practising his swordsmanship as much as he did on women or poetry, the milk drinker might have lived.”
“Oh, that’s why you’re so concerned and worried about Cenric’s training progress.”
Rayner gave a dismissive snort as he crossed his arms. “No, why would you think that?”
Tharos then gave Rayner a knowing smile. “Your words and actions seem to contradict each other. Don’t you think?”
Rayner met Tharos’s gaze before responding, “There are no contradictions, Tharos.”
Tharos swiftly shifted the conversation. “Speaking of Cenric, where is he?”
“Last time I checked, he was that way,” Rayner said, pointing in the direction of the northern part of the village.” Tharos looked in the direction and saw a faint flicker of torchlight just outside the village. The torch, a beacon of orange and yellow, was being buffeted by the rain. However, something seemed amiss. Tharos squinted and noticed the torch waving rapidly and erratically.
“What is Cenric doing over there?” Tharos wondered aloud. Cenric was not known for his energy; in fact, he was quite the opposite. It was unusual for him to be swinging a torch so wildly unless he was under attack and engaged in a battle.
Tharos reached into his satchel and retrieved an old, rusting spyglass that he had looted from a mercenary captain named Gabrus the Greedy, whom he had defeated in single combat. Peering through the scope of the spyglass, Tharos struggled to see clearly due to the rain and wind obscuring his view, causing the glass to fog up and be stained by droplets of falling rain. However, with intense focus, he managed to make out Cenric moving around. Cenric was dodging and attacking, wielding his axe and defending himself with a torch against an unseen adversary. As Tharos adjusted his position slightly to the left, faint figures began to emerge out of the shadows and into the flickering torchlight. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that most of them were pale, deathly pale, and some even appeared to be in various states of decay, from sunken, ashen faces to a mix of blacks, browns, and even greens of rotting bodies. They were wearing mismatched and torn clothing, with some clutching weapons in clumsy and bony fingers.
Those were undead, zombies for certain. The zombies were about to swarm Cenric if they didn’t intervene quickly. Tharos wasn’t certain if they were the only type of undead present. Tharos swiftly turned to Rayner as he packed up his belongings in his satchel.
“I have some good news for you, Rayner.”
“Really? What is it?” Rayner’s voice was now filled with excitement rather than boredom or frustration.
“Well, your wish just came true. We are about to have some company,” Rayner responded with a wide, wolfish smile. “It’s about time,” he exclaimed.
Tharos and Rayner hurried through the shop and made their way to the northern gate. As they neared their destination, Tharos began to sense the presence of the undead and the heightened emotions emanating from Cenric.
(“Cenric, we’re approaching. What’s the situation?” Tharos reached out with his mind. After a brief pause, Cenric responded, (“Zombies, a lot of them. They came out of nowhere.” Panic was evident in his voice.
“Can you hold on until we arrive?” Tharos asked Cenric
“I think I can, but…” Cenric’s voice trailed off as the connection abruptly cut out, signalling trouble.
“We need to pick up the pace,” Tharos urged, glancing at Rayner.
“Let’s hope the whelp isn’t dead by the time we get there.”
“He should be fine as long as he trusts in his training,” Tharos hoped that the two months of training, no matter how short it was, counted for something at least. As the two of them reached the northern gate of the village, they found Cenric on the ground, battered and bruised, with his helmet dented and covered in mud. Several zombies surrounded him, threatening to overwhelm him as he swung his axe wildly. Before Tharos could intervene, Rayner swiftly closed the distance between them, wielding his axe. Rayner’s powerful swing cleaved through the zombies surrounding Cenric, his voice booming like thunder. “Get up!” he shouted, then charged at the remaining zombies pouring in through the front gate.
Tharos extended his hand to help Cenric up, saying, “You did well. Are you hurt?” Cenric, covered in mud and sporting several injuries, replied, ”
“No, I’m fine,” as he leaned on Tharos’ shoulder to catch his breath.
“That’s good. Stay here and catch your breath. Rayner and I will take care of the rest,” Tharos said. Charging in, he followed Rayner with his sword and shield raised high like defiant banners. Tharos joined the battle outside the village gates. It didn’t take long for him and Rayner to slay the remaining zombies. It only took them a few minutes at most, excluding the few that Cenric killed himself, one of them currently impaled on a spear. Flailing about, trying to rip itself free from the muddy ground where it found itself pinned, it was a rotten and twisted thing, a perversion of the human form and a perversion of death itself.
“Disgusting,” he muttered as he cleaved the zombie into pieces with his sword, then yanked the spear firmly planted in the ground.
“That seems to be all of them. Are there any left, Rayner?”
Rayner, now covered in blood, snorted, “No, there are no more left. A real pity. I was enjoying the exercise.” Tharos surveyed the scene and counted at least thirty-five to forty zombies, now reduced to rotting pieces of flesh on the ground. The stench was almost unbearable. The rain was a small relief as it washed away the foul odour that was beginning to assault his nostrils. However, once the rain stopped and the new dawn arrived, they would need to quickly dispose of and burn the bodies to prevent the spread of plagues and diseases to not only this village but also the surrounding areas.
“This is a rather small number of undead for attacking a village of this size,” he muttered.
“Why, are you disappointed that the excitement is already over?” Rayner remarked as he wiped blood and raindrops off his face.
“No, it’s nothing like that. I was just expecting more than this,” Tharos said, gesturing to the dead rotting corpses on the ground.
“Perhaps you were overthinking things as you always do,” Rayner countered.
“Perhaps,” Tharos muttered to himself. “Perhaps I am.” Even with the element of surprise, these zombies wouldn’t be enough to take on a village with the population size that Golden Apple had. Zombies, by their very nature, were cannon fodder for necromancers. They were simple, easily made and maintained fodder that they would throw at their enemies—enemies that would be overwhelmed by sheer numbers or used as a distraction for more advanced and highly valued undead creatures. Before he could ponder the intentions of their unknown adversary, his thoughts were interrupted by Cenric approaching him. Still catching his breath and feeling hurried, he composed himself before responding. He observed that Cenric was still muddy, with the rain gradually washing it away.
“Did you get them all, Tharos?” Cenric asked
“For the time being, yes. Return to the store, clean up, and tend to your wounds.”
“Understood,” Cenric said as he nodded in agreement. As he was about to turn his back to both of them and walk away, they all heard a loud scream, followed by the sound of a large bell ringing. The bell in the centre of the village echoed throughout the village. Now, some of the houses that were once dark sparked back to life as if awakening from their slumber. Tharos realised that this was only the first wave, and they were facing just one group out of many. Tharos sighed, feeling that he had his work cut out for him.
