Dark Age Year 871
Twenty second day of the Third month
As night fell upon the village of Golden Apple, so did the dark clouds that were once distant, now hanging overhead like a suffocating blanket, blocking out the starlit sky. The blue hue of the moon was replaced by a murky grey, and rain poured down from the heavens above, with only the faint glow of candlelight and hearths emanating from the houses of the few residents who were still up past this midnight hour. From a certain perspective, it was almost beautiful, especially for those with a melancholic mood and outlook on beauty. This was at least what Tharos thought as he gazed over the village from the rooftop of one of its tallest buildings, a three-story shop. It wasn’t as tall as he would have preferred, but a high vantage point was a high vantage point, and from this roof, he could see most of the village. In case there was an attack this night, he would be able to spot it before it happened.
It was an abandoned shop that 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. He currently used it as a make shift storehouse, allowing them to store weapons, armour, and other valuables they couldn’t carry from the random bandits or mercenaries they had encountered. 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 pondered to himself. Nico’s acquisition of new property, in and of itself, wasn’t questionable or odd per se in a vacuum, as the goddess of Luck and Fortune was ever a fickle mistress, spreading her blessings or curses to all those who struck her fancy. However, Tharos felt something was off about it, but he didn’t know what. He already had some suspicions about Nico but didn’t have enough information or context to fully ground these suspicions in more than just a hunch. Hunches which very rarely, if ever, proved untrue in the end. He then stood on the roof, almost as still as a statue, with hawk-like features that exuded tranquillity and peace, resembling a body at repose. The rain fell upon him, drenching his hair and clothes as raindrops bounced off his armour with a soft pitter-patter noise that soothed his ears. The cold seeped into his dark, tanned skin, sending a deeper chill into the depths of his bones. While he found this sensation unpleasant on one hand, on the other hand, it was something he rather missed. Rain was a rare occurrence in Zarbar, and even during his travels through the Deadlands and Borderlands, it was not a common weather phenomenon. He welcomed this change of pace, savouring the cooling rain and wind that kept his mind and senses sharp. As he continued to survey the village, Tharos heard faint noises underneath him. It sounded like someone heavy climbing up a wooden ladder that could barely support their weight. The sounds of the wooden ladder creaking and heavy footsteps, though muffled by the rain, grew louder. The noise then ceased at the middle of the roof he was on, and Tharos sensed a familiar presence. Turning his head, he saw Rayner climbing from the trap door that led to the roof of the shop, which had been left open. Rayner stood there with a bored expression on his face. He was starting to become just as waterlogged as Tharos, but unlike Tharos, there was a strong odour emanating from Rayner, similar to that of a wet dog.
“It’s a good thing I am used to that smell; otherwise, he would have been unbearable,” Tharos thought to himself before he was about to address his companion. “Do you require something of me?” he asked as he unwrinkled his nose.
Rayner let out a small snort in response. “No, unless you have a cure for this boredom.”
“I’m afraid I don’t, unless you want me to teach and lecture you on the finer points of table-side etiquette while we wait for the enemy to show up. Your table manners are shocking and require much improvement.”
Rayner rolled his eyes in response and countered, “I am a warrior, Tharos. The day I need to worry myself with such things is the day I die. All a warrior needs is to trust in the strength of your sword arm and the will to carry it out.”
“That is true to a point, but I have to disagree with you. There is more to being a warrior than just swinging your sword around. What about an appreciation for the arts, for music, for all the joys that life has to offer? Anyone can swing a sword and deal death in equal measure. However…” Tharos continued, his tone confident and as cool as the nightly wind that blew through them and as refreshing as the rain that drenched them both. “Without anything else, a warrior will always be just a sword and nothing more. A sword that will be disregarded when it is no longer needed, left to grow dull and rust from disuse. How does such a blade remain sharp when it isn’t in use?”
Rayner turned his head to the side for a quick moment and glanced at Tharos with a curious expression, resembling that of a curious dog. It was a rare change from the large smiles or masks of rage that Rayner would typically display.
“Well, you see, the way to prevent such decay is by staying cultured, or simply put, having a hobby outside of engaging in warfare. There is a lot that a warrior like yourself could gain and learn from such activities. For example…” Tharos continued, making sure to take a quick pause to emphasise the point he was about to make. “Take Elven warriors, for instance. They often study and pursue mastery of the arts, such as music and painting, as much as they do their own weapons. But you might ask yourself why. Well, the answer is simple. Through painting, they learn the art of control and precise movements and motions; through music, they learn the rhythm of life, when to be cool like ice and when to strike with fiery fury. I am sure a warrior of your calibre can appreciate and see the value in that.”
“Ugh,” Rayner sighed as he let out a loud snort. “We wilders don’t need such things. Save stuff like that for prissy elves or those yellow skinned runts from Kenshi.”
“As you are so famous for saying. But it is really a shame. I had read somewhere in a book that your people are quite famous for producing many warrior poets. I was hoping you would regale us with such tales.”
“You sound like the milk drinker Yasnir,” Rayner said, his tone irritated.
“Is he a friend of yours? Based on how 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 little runt of a man with a good sword arm. Sadly, he would spend most of his time chasing skirts or writing sonnets rather than focusing on his sword arm,” Rayner continued. As he did so, Tharos raised an eyebrow. He had heard bits and pieces about Rayner and his reputation as a mercenary, but he had never heard it straight from the horse’s mouth. He was intrigued, even though he had spent the last two months travelling with Rayner. Rayner didn’t talk much about himself or his past escapades, so Tharos listened on with great interest.
“He took an axe blow that was meant for me and died. If he had spent as much time practising his swordsmanship as he did on women or poetry, the milk drinker might have lived.”
“Oh, that’s why you’re so concerned and worried about the progress of Cenric’s training.”
Rayner gave a dismissive snort as he crossed his arms. “No, why would you think that?”
Tharos then gave Rayner a knowing smile. “Well for starters your words say one thing while your actions say another. Quite the contradiction. Don’t you think.”
Rayner locked eyes with Tharos for a brief moment before speaking. “There are no contradictions, Tharos.”
“As you say,” Tharos then quickly changed the topic. “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 that direction and could see the faint flicker of torchlight just outside the village. It was a beacon of burning orange and yellow being bombarded by the torrent of falling rain, but there was something off. As Tharos narrowed his eyes, he noticed the torch being waved around in a rapid and erratic manner.
“What is Cenric doing over there?” Tharos said aloud. Cenric wasn’t what he would call an energetic person, in-fact he was the polar opposite of that. But it seems rather out of character for him to be swinging a torch wildly like that unless, unless he was under attack and was currently in the middle of 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 to be sure. Zombies were about quickly about to swarm Cenric, if they intervene quickly. Tharos wasn’t sure they were the only type of undead present. Tharos quickly turned to Rayner, as he packed up his things in his satchel.
“Well, I have some good news for you, Rayner.”
“Really? What would that be?” Rayner voice was now not one of boredom or frustration. But a sense of ever growing excitement.
“Well, your wish just got granted. We are about to have some company.” Rayner gave a wide and wolfish smile at that. “It’s about time,” he bellowed. The two of them rushed through the shop and headed toward the northern gate. After a few minutes of running and as they got closer, Tharos could now start sensing the undead, along with the flurry of emotions Cenric was feeling, reaching out with his mind.
(“Cenric, we are on our way. What is the situation?”) After a few moments, there was a reply, (“Zombies, a lot of them. They just came out of nowhere.”) there was panic in his voice.
(“Can you hold out until we get there?”)
(“I think I can but…“) All of a sudden, the connection cut out. That wasn’t a good sign.
“We have to hurry and quicken our pace.” Tharos said as he looked at Rayner
“Lets 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 made it to the northern gate of the village, they came across Cenric on the ground, battered and bruised, with his helmet dented and sloshing in the mud. Several zombies surrounded him, threatening to overwhelm him as he slashed wildly at them with his axe in hand. Before Tharos could rush in to help Cenric, Rayner closed the gap between them with great speed as Tharos drew his sword. Rayner swung his axe wide, cleaving through and splitting in half the zombies crowding around Cenric, his voice booming like thunder. “Get up,” he shouted, then rushed the rest of the zombies pouring in through the front gate.
Tharos reached out his hand for Cenric to grab, helping him up to his feet. Tharos spoke, “You did well. Are you hurt?” he asked Cenric, who was now covered in mud with several injuries.
“No, I am fine,” Cenric said, leaning on Tharos shoulder while catching 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 uttered as he split and bisected the zombie into several pieces with his sword before grabbing the spear that was panted firmly in the ground.
“That seems like all of them. Are they any left Rayner.”
Rayner, now covered in blood, snorted, “No, there are no more left. A real pity. I was enjoying the exercise.” Tharos, looking around him, could see at least thirty-five to forty zombies, all of them now reduced to nothing more and nothing less than rotting pieces of flesh on the ground. The smell was borderline unbearable. It was a small blessing that it was raining, as the rain washed away the odour that was starting to assault and offend his nostrils in a relentless wave of foulness. However, once the rain stopped and the new dawn came, they would have to quickly dispose of and burn the bodies before they spread plagues and other diseases, not just to this village but to the surrounding areas as well.
“This is a rather small amount of undead for the task of attacking a village of this size,” he uttered aloud.
“What, are you upset that the fun is all over?” Rayner said as he wiped off blood, along with droplets of rain, off his face.
“No it nothing like that. It’s just i was expecting more than this.” Tharos said gesturing to the dead rotting corpses on the ground.
“Perhaps you where over thinking things as you always do.” Rayner counted back
“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 dwell on what their unknown foe was up to, his train of thought was interrupted when he saw Cenric walk up to him. Still breathing rapidly and feeling rushed, he steadied himself before speaking. He noticed that Cenric was still covered in mud, which was slowly being washed away by the rain.
“Is that all of them, Tharos?” Cenric asked.
“It should be for now. Go back to the store, wash up, and get your wounds treated.”
“Understood,” Cenric said as he nodded his head 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 large 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. It was at this point that Tharos realised that this was only the first wave, and what they were fighting was just one group out of many. Tharos sighed, feeling that he had his work cut out for him.
