[Fiction] Apocalypse Hope

This bit of fiction was inspired by my encountering the MÖRK BORG tabletop roleplaying game. It's a wonderfully depressing setting that is gritty and unforgiving. I started with creating several characters using the game, then used fiction to justify their starting equipment and went from there. The fiction aims to demonstrates how a party of characters could form organically within a doomed setting. Enjoy!

Smerkel's Hope

Smerkel rose to his feet, lifting his rags from the sloshy, rot-filled mud on the edge of the battlefield. The land had shaken its last gurgle of life and the mixed battalions fell and stayed. The last crusades were over and no true faith had come out on top. Smerkel himself had found no purpose or hope within the ranks of followers of the sainted man. He had found a warm meal of root gruel a few times and during those days, the sainted man’s faith was all that kept him alive, and so he looked at his fellows, and the fallen foes, fellows of some other fellow, and he felt grateful. Surely he should have died when the earth quaked, but now all was quiet. The ash fell all around like snowflakes and the distant tree line started to fade. Smerkel felt dizzy, swaying in the cold slow winds. He checked his wounds: they were deep and flush with watery blood. Yet he rose to his feet and steadied himself a bit. His heart still beat in his chest and the gray skies turned white as the rush of blood returned to his angry ears. All was white and cold and he closed his eyes, trying desperately to stay up, but the muck claimed him again when he fell back with a gory squish.

Smerkel was used to gutter scum and muck. Laying in the stench of war was like laying in the blankets of stinking mud he had known well enough as a city child. Now, old enough to have fathered many children, he lamented that he would die of his wounds, not having known any kindness, save for that temporary friendship of a trickster or the handshake of another charlatan pope with the promise of a daily wafer to bring the destitute to his service. Certainly, he had not known any kindness, nor had he learned to give any kindness in return. And so, he pondered why he had not died like the rest of them, and why he was so grateful to be alive, that he might live and that his suffering might continue.

Perhaps I am risen as a ghost or one of the wicked undead, he thought.

Smerkel felt no more wicked than he was before the battle. The same desperate thoughts assailed him, yet there was something else with him that day. He felt special for being the only one alive among the hundreds who had come to this field to prove their faith, fight, and die in the useless crusades. He sat up again, holding his head in his dirty hands, trying to stay up long enough for the dizziness to pass and for him to attempt walking again. Once he got up, it would be easier to teeter out of the field than crawling out.

While he took his time, sat up in the bloody muck, he gathered to him the objects he could reach. The crows and vultures of this wicked land already announcing their feast had begun. “This is your last feast,” he told them solemnly. The birds cried out in return, tearing the eyes and soft meat from the fallen men all around.

Smerkel found the broken handle of a great axe and a thick leather satchel. The satchel had broken glass vials, muck-soaked parchments with illegible ink smudges. Battle gospels from another charlatan, no doubt. The broken glass glittered with the oil-slick ointments it once contained. Perhaps a regenerative liquor, hoping to find some solace for his growing hunger, he licked the most intact shards of the vials. It tasted bitter, but for one who has known naught but bitterness, it was a respite that allowed him a sigh of relief. He recognized the drops of this poison: an elixir to open up the minds of faithful followers. It was used by priests to help the faithful in fighting their natural instincts and accept the grand ideas of honor and self-sacrifice. He lapped up the liquid like a mad beast, licking the sharp glass without managing to cut himself. One of the vials, intact! Unbroken!

A miracle, verily verily, he said to himself. As if privy to his thaumaturgy, the crows and vultures moved closer to him, making their presence known with gargled chirps and caws, perhaps wanting a bit of sport: fighting Smerkel, the last man to ever live. Smerkel knew his difficulties were not yet over. He rose to his feet and used the broken handle of the once great ax to push his steps ever forward, making way to the trees where he would be less open to the birds’ attacks. On his way to the trees, he found a torn sack with dirty rags in them, a broken sword which would make a passable weapon in a hurry, and a thick leather hood. Smerkel wished he still had all of his faculties and could strip one of the fallen which had been better armored, but he did not dare linger too close within the feast of the birds, lest he allowed them to feast on his own barely-living flesh.

At last, Smerkel collapsed, his back against a thick tree trunk, the battlefield of the final crusade behind him. Light began to dim and he fought hard to keep his wits and consciousness about him, but his whole world was already turning into that blinding gray world of forceful fainting.

Huberr's Will

Huberr felt the cold of the ax head split his neck from behind and he cursed the coward. Halfway through his curse, the world had gone black and he felt nothing. Nothing. He was nothing. Huberr was no more. He faded into nothing, came from nothing, was nothing, is nothing. Something rose from Huberr to bring it all back. A terrible pain the color of a violent hue he could not see but imagined more vividly than any perception. His split neck. The primordial pain of existence, linked to a cell of willpower. In this moment the sum of Huberr’s consciousness came down to one choice. The weight of his soul, the power of his will, was such that he was one with his body again. Cold muck about him, the movement behind as he lay face first. He heard a great crack and felt more pain he could not grunt away, dead was his body. Mostly dead. Someone behind him. Someone who lived! Someone who moved something very near him. Huberr could not move, but he could sense that which was near. The shuffling feet and squishy sounds of the muddy earth were soon gone.

Huberr listened. He felt the cold wet muck. He could not breathe, but he did not need to breathe to just listen. He did not need to breathe to think. Or to feel cold and wet. Or to feel pain. He felt plenty already and decided he did not feel like breathing the bloody muck he lay in. He felt his limbs and the impossible weight to lift them. Impossible. So impossible he could not even fathom trying.

So he lay and he listened and he felt cold and wet. He did not feel like straining his thoughts or stretching his mind. He heard nothing of note. Then he heard a caw, still distant. Shortly after that, the flapping of great wings. Then more caws flew down and landed near him. Huberr realized his flesh would be eaten soon. He knew his name but recalled little else. He knew the chill in his neck was more than the dread of being eaten alive, it was more than the split ax head stuck in his bone. The chill down his spine was his will to live one more day. Just one more day away from the field where his brothers in arms lay. That chill shook his bones and his flesh followed. He stood up wearily, opened his eyes. A bright flash caused him another surge of pain. As he regarded the battlefield, he could hear the trickling sound of his bloody wound seeping out of his neck and a few more negligible places. It was as though life itself left his body and with his exsanguination, he carried more room for his will.

Two vultures crossed close to his face and a crow landed on his shoulder, quickly pecking at the eyes that pained him. He turned away and felt like yelling, but he coughed instead and kept coughing before he could take a proper breath. The cold air filled his lungs and escaped somewhere within. He was riddled with holes but he could breathe again. His coughing fit had cleared the area of the feathered scavengers, but they were starving and aggressive, they would return soon. Wanting to live another day meant getting the hell out of there and finding cover for the night. Maybe a fire to warm the chill in his bones. Somehow the thought was worrisome. Perhaps he was lacking the memories that would explain his instinctual fear of fire. Huberr hobbled out of the field without falling too much, grabbing a couple of swords that stuck out of the ground. He walked to the trees and turned around to once again regard the field of the last holy war.

So this is the apocalypse, he thought. The grin spread across his face in spite of him. A moment later, he spotted Smerkel and suddenly stood as still as he could. Smerkel was not moving, but Huberr knew he was alive. He watched carefully and after a time saw that the man sitting there was breathing, sighing from time to time, half collapsed in exhaustion, fighting to live, just like Huberr was. So he walked over and checked on the fellow, sticking the swords in the ground next to him, just in case.

“Hail, survivor.”

“Ugh.”

“Hail.”

“Who…” Smerkel nodded off, his neck bending back uncomfortably, then snapping back upright, his eyes opening.

“Huberr is my name. Try to live another day, fellow, and you will not have to spend it alone. What is your name.”

Smerkel tried to answer but vomited blood instead. Huberr rolled him on his side and pushed on Smerkel’s torso in various places, trying to ease his new acquaintance.

After vomiting more blood and wincing in pain, Smerkel watched Huberr and simply said, “I coulda sworn I was the only one left alive after the earth shook and killed them all. My name is Smerkel by the way.”

“Well met, Smerkel, last man alive after the final holy war of this world,” Huberr replied.

Rusten's Luck

Rusten had fallen when the earth shook, like the rest of the zealots fooled into dying for the sake of faith. Now the gods are dead and they will welcome me, Rusten thought. His body did not move and he lay in a stupor, cradled by the blood-filth of clay and clumps of red grass. He was aware that dying was taking a surprisingly long time for someone as riddled with arrows as he was. He imagined himself as a martyr for his faith, dying for a cause he had not embraced until the end seemed so nigh that aligning with the one true faith was a practical affair. All of his family and friends had died long before he picked up a holy symbol and a sword. Poor Rusten always feared a painful death, but this was not too bad. His injuries bled but the pain was so dull compared to the holocaust quake the heretical priests had summoned out of desperation and loss. The dull pain was easy to ignore as he waited for death. All of his senses were dulled, really. He did not feel the movement near him, nor when the birds tore at the flesh of his wounds. He failed to hear anything but an eventual coughing fit by some unfortunate soul out there trying to draw breath in the ashy winds.

Coughing? That meant someone else lived. And why not I, Rusten asked. Perhaps a priest survived and the conquest of faith, the question of truth, the riddle of choice, would be answered at last. And if the question of which faith won out over the others, he wanted to witness it. So Rusten gathered his senses a bit and he opened his eyes. Nothing but the shifting lights of heaven, the gray clouds of ash and the unseen light of a sun’s fire doused long ago. The caws, not so distant, came into being, filling his world with a bit more dread than he felt a moment before, as he was once again a mortal man bleeding to death on a battlefield. Rusten’s curiosity had to be satisfied and it took immense efforts to pry himself up from the muck and bodies that lay on his limbs. He sat up and methodically pulled out the arrows. The pain was excruciating but it awoke the rest of his senses. Dazed, he looked about, watching as the mysterious survivor walked off the field with a sword in each fist. Ah, so the priest of war survived, he thought, though war itself has died. Rusten pulled out the last arrows from his belly and his thighs. He felt weak but determined, and he was thirsty. He had bled too much, but it felt as though all of the arrows and sword blows had only weakened him and avoided the vital organs. The bleeding was uncomfortable to the point of being bothersome. Rusten hoped the surviving priest was a hospitaller knight with some knowledge of how to bind his wounds. Rusten tried to stand up but found himself too weak to do much more than get up on his knees and fists. He looked for some sturdy beam or unbroken shield to prop himself with. He grunted as he crawled over several fallen fellow fools to reach the heavy tower shield that covered the heretical chaplain. He used the shield as much as it used him, carrying the heavy prize with his exhausted limbs. On his way to the edge of the field, where the coughing fit priest had gone to, Rusten picked up a cloth sack and filled it with the discarded gospels and litanies of faith of the losers. He felt that scrolls would play an important role in being the last priest’s own witness, even if he had to do the writing. Rusten spoke to himself but his voice was not quite his own, so weak he was. Nonetheless, he said: “Being the witness of the end is an important task I must fulfill in the apocalypse of the gods. It is my duty now.”

Rusten was almost inspired to speak a formal oath, but was reminded to be practical enough as to encounter the last priest and speak to him first. What if the thing was but a revenant with ravenous hunger and not a man. Rusten agreed with his survival instinct so he grabbed a bloodied mace barely mangled by the armor it met in battle. He followed the footsteps in the mud, straining to look up from under his chainmail cowl and leather hood. He saw the man’s silhouette, a dark gray figure against the darker background of the night forest. He heard the man speak, but not to him, so Rusten slowed his pace and gathered his senses about him, driving the dizzying weakness away. He found he had renewed vigor: the sixth wind, he thought. He carried himself and his shield ever closer and leaned on the shield when he saw Huberr move to help Smerkel up.

“Oh, there are two of you surviving priests. Tell me, o chosen ones, what faith you follow, what gods granted you life when so many have died in their names?”

Huberr turned to look at Rusten and regarded him carefully. “It was not faith that saved me, fool. Only the will to live another day, in spite of the gods of conflict.” He paused, then asked “And what god saved you? I see you have holes throughout, yet you stand, shallowly, but you stand.”

“I think it was unlucky that I was pierced and shaken. Perhaps it is bad luck that brought me back and allows me to stand now.” Rusten felt his knees shake and he collapsed forward, barely steadying himself with his shield.

“Rest a moment, friend. I am Huberr, and this man is Smerkel. We have just met but his wounds are worse than mine.”

Rusten looked at the container of water, which Smerkel brought to his lips and drank greedily. Huberr recognized the look and helped Smerkel finish his drink, then he handed the container to Rusten, who drank carefully, for Huberr reached the pommel of one the swords that stuck out of the ground. Rusten felt the rush of the cold water invigorate him. Water was the same, yet held a quality of life-giving properties he had never felt before.

A weak voice behind Rusten called out in a strange language, then again it repeated in the common tongue of men, “Mercy, mercy, knights! Water! If you spare it…” They all looked upon the bloody mess ravaged by war which crawled to Rusten’s feet. Rusten reached down and handed the poor crawler the canteen. But when the crawler grabbed the canteen, he also stabbed Rusten’s foot, a wicked smile appearing behind the muck where a face should be. Rusten cried out in pain, and the echoes drove away some birds, setting off a cloud of crows which covered the din of the sudden conflict.

Karva's Wrath

Karva seethed within the shell of his corpse, angry that he allowed the gods to render his body useless, like the rest of the rabble that had gathered on that fateful field of the final conflict. He had died several times, killing twice as many as killed him in battle. The priests employed the means to bring him back, zealot that he was, tainted by the predetermined fate of the followers of the sinner’s pardon. Yet his fate was overcome by his wrath. His hatred of his fellow man drove him to keep getting back up after a deathblow. He would open his eyes and tighten his fists around the handle of whatever weapon he could grasp, then he would get up and kill again, yelling the names of god in the order the priests had taught him. Sometimes it was his gauntlets that he used to kill, when the weapons had fallen too far to reach. He was a gory mess long before he collapsed with the rest of them in that great quake of the earth. Now his fists grasped at nothing, but his mind was still seething that he could not kill one more man with his god-given anger. He squinted out from under a pile of corpses and saw HIM. He saw a man teetering out of the field, carrying the shield of the enemy chaplain.

Oh, if I could just kill one more of them, and perhaps even drink his blood to sate this thirst! Karva thought, madly. But Karva could not stand, though he could shuffle a bit. So he crawled, quickened only by anger, finding himself lucky when he pulled a ceremonial dagger from the face of a heretic. He crawled quickly now, formulating a plan to slice the man’s foot tendon to collapse him, then he could kill him by slicing his throat. Then he would feel the spray of warm blood on his face and it would be as soothing as warm spring water in winter. His thirst would be sated. But would his anger? No! Never! he told himself.

He crawled further to the edge of the death field. From the edge, he saw there were three barely alive that he would have to kill, and he would likely face them alone. That was his fantasy. To face an entire battalion (Nay! A world!) of hopeless heretical fools by himself, proving that his wrath and endless well of anger were always justified. The unlikely survivors spoke among themselves and he heard them clearly while he crawled carefully. He realized what he needed to do.

A distraction. A lie. Karva called for mercy, and the first heretical knight answered his call! Then Karva plunged the dagger into his foot and felt that the spirit of the last crusade still filled him with vigorous hostility.

But instead of reacting and fighting him, the man who introduced himself to the others a moment ago, Rusten only winced and kicked Karva in the face so that he let go of the dagger. Rusten moved quickly and held the dagger to Karva’s throat, saying, “You have found the limits of my mercy, lest you give me a reason not to send you to the next life.”

Karva seethed and spit, writhing under the sharp blade at his chin.

“Let the man live, but restrain him lest he kills us.” Smerkel spoke in his deep voice, almost soothing to the mess of survivors nearby. “I am Smerkel. What is your name, survivor?” Smerkel struggled to stand up, squeezing the tree’s bark to steady himself.

“I heard your damned names… By my name, I will kill all of you, heretics!” Rusten reminded Karva of the sharp knife at his throat and Karva’s anger turned to stumbling panic again. “Fine, I will only kill those of you who are heretics.”

“All the heretics are already dead,” Huberr said, solemn. “Only the chosen ones have survived, including you, Karva.” Karva threw him a nasty look, and the wrath behind the blood-red eyes only grew, leading to confusion.

“I have not said my name and I did not recognize yours when I heard it… Who are you, then? How do you know me?”

Huberr said, “I guessed it.” Then he grabbed his canteen back and offered it to Karva.

Karva drank and coughed up a bit, then he sighed: “You did not guess it, liar. Trickster. Tricksters deserve death! Only truth shall live!” Karva shut up to drink more and the other three laughed at him, which only served to anger him further. “To hell with the lot of you!” he spit out.

When they were done laughing, Rusten said, “Hell is where we come from, and I am loathe to return there.”

The forest wolves howled in the distance, which reminded the survivors of the last holy war that there was still survival to think about, and truthfully, little else to consider. Smerkel told them, “Let us live through the night, then we can discuss hell and the merits of going there again.” Huberr tended to Smerkel, and Rusten gave Karva his dagger back. Soon, Huberr was wrapping bits of rags around their wounds and tightening the seeping holes in their flesh. Karva would bide his time and kill them later while they rested, or so he told himself.

Scavengers of the Death Field

The four unlikely survivors of the last holy war had gathered and adopted the practice of mutual aid in the face of common danger: the wolves of the forest were drawing closer to the death field, attracted by the scent of blood and the cries of carrion birds. Smerkel had spotted a recently fallen tree — the handiwork of the great quake — massive enough to offer solid cover, with branches sturdy and thick, good for defense. Huberr took it upon himself to care for their collective wounds, using dirty rags to bind the holes in their flesh where he applied a salve of chewed up black roots and the tinsel moss that grew on the low branches of the forest. Rusten and Karva watched each other, Rusten with curiosity, Karva with hatred. Huberr asked them to keep watch for approaching enemies. Rusten watched Karva and the woods behind him, where the wolves would be coming. Karva faced the opposite direction: that is to say he looked at Rusten with a deep hatred, then he would look behind Rusten, to the death field, where the black birds might pose new dangers. Karva played with the weight of the ceremonial dagger he had acquired, flipping it in his hand with ease.

Huberr broke the silence, speaking in a quiet tone that all could hear: “Alright, lads. We might make it through the night if the wolves fail to catch our scent. The smell of the carcasses should draw them to the death field first.”

Rusten said, “There’s a bit of light left in the sky, perhaps we could scavenge the edge of the field for better equipment… Smerkel and Karva are ill-equipped to defend us, or even themselves.” This prompted the group to assess what they had. They had carried little else than their lives when they followed one another. Collectively, they agreed that perhaps a quick foray into the death field would yield some goods.

Smerkel nodded, looked at his new companions and said, “We have all been alive long enough to have pilfered a corpse or two, so let us hurry. We will try to withstand the cold winds of night without the luxury of a campfire. Make quick work of this and return here before dark.” The men looked at one another in turn, quietly judging themselves in the eyes of the others, yet now they felt no sin in their practical pasts of stripping fresh corpses of their valuables. “This is the end of the world and our survival is a miracle. Do not take risks which might be unnecessary.”

“None of this is necessary, and all of it is risky,” Karva retorted, frustrated at his own resignation not to commit violence upon his companions until the moment was right.

“The wretch is right,” Rusten said. We survive a night, and so what? We outlived every holy man in that field, and for what? To be witnesses to the end, are we not?”

Smerkel sighed and before anyone could respond, chimed in with his own opinion. “This is not the time for aggrandizing our situation, no matter how miraculous it may seem. We are merely here and surely we are able to die for good.” The other men nodded slowly at Smerkel’s wisdom. “But for now, we have one another to rely upon. Huberr did a good job patching me up. I do not know how the rest of you feel, but I am ready to fight again should the need arise. That seems like its own miracle, but I will push on and gather the equipment we will need to pass the next several days, ideally eating trail rations and carrion birds rather than the corpse meat of our own fellow men.”

“Puh!” Karva spat. “You are all ridiculously hopeful that it makes my stomach ache.”

“That’s just the hunger,” Rusten said. “Surely there are rations and treasures among the dead which may grant us new miracles.” Karva’s eyes narrowed to slits, but he agreed nonetheless.

Huberr closed the discussion with quick orders, which came naturally to him: “Alright, you lot. Spread out but stay at the edges so that we might retreat when the wolves approach.”

The four men moved carefully to the death field. An irritating drizzle tickled their faces and slickened their gear when they left the canopy of the trees and made their way to the open field of bloodied-mud and broken ground. From this perspective, they could spot where the earth had shifted and where great pits had formed during the quake. Rusten warned them to stay out of those pits lest they buried themselves in the muck without a chance to escape. They spread out, each looking to improve their gear and to fill their sacks and pockets with any trail rations the dead warriors may have carried into battle. The crows were still feasting and the vultures had claimed most of the pits for themselves, feasting as well. Karva even spotted a limping dog across the field and the thought occurred that it would make a nice meal for him and his companions. They had to kick some birds off of the fallen warriors but there were far more corpses than hungry birds, so the search was not difficult, though it felt futile. After they each had searched about a dozen bodies, the darkness of night had swallowed the dim light of the cloud-covered sky. With barely a glow left on the horizon, they once again heard the howls of the wolves, much nearer than they hoped. Without a word between them, they looked to the forest and started to make their way back to that great fallen tree they had chosen as their encampment. Soon they were gathered again and quietly went through the loads they had pilfered.

Each had dragged the good bits of armor and any intact weapons they came across. They listed out their findings quietly to each other, setting them up in the hollow of the fallen tree, passing shields and swinging the weapons to test their sturdiness. Huberr got to work adjusting the two crossbows that they took. There were also dubious scrolls removed from well-equipped warrior-priests that might prove useful if the miracles of dead and forgotten gods could still be relied upon. There were also the small bags of lard and hard biscuits that Huberr and Rusten had found. Rusten had also found a cloth map wrapped around a key which seemed important, though he did not think it would prove particularly useful. Perhaps it was the hope of further treasure. They found three chests of medical equipment, mostly bandages and salves, but also some specialized kits. They each had gathered some waterskins to refresh their thirst, as well as bloodied, muck-covered blankets and pierced capes which they would use to drive away the cold of night. There were other items which the men kept entirely to themselves, for it was in their nature to hold back from their fellow survivors. Rusten used the ropes and the thick steel chain collected to create a makeshift alarm that would clink a warning if any creatures approached their hollow. Huberr went through the discarded scrolls and holy texts Rusten had gathered, hoping to find some elements of power, though he soon found himself without enough light to decipher much of anything. They had found two lanterns with fresh oil, but knew better than to light anything that would draw someone near. He gave up and munched on the dry-rot biscuits dipped in cold lard.

The sound of running from within the forest put an end to their patience, the men strained to look between the thick cover of the tree. The wolf scouts came from far enough away that the four men remained safe. They were close enough that the men could hear the hard breaths of the first wolves to arrive. The men stopped going through their gears and let their things lay about at their feet, as they were now well-equipped in armor and weapons of their choice. Karva stopped eating and slowly moved up the tree to get a better view. Smerkel was worried that Karva would slip and give them away, but he watched as the thin man climbed the branches without much sound at all. One cracked branch and we are discovered… Why would he take such a risk? Smerkel thought. He looked to Rusten and Huberr. From the look on their dirty faces, they were pondering the same thing.

With their scavenging endeavor successful, they passed the next several hours waiting in quiet rest, dozing off here and there. They whispered barely at all, and continued to observe their immediate surroundings, relying on Karva to look beyond the tree cover. Karva, perched above the rest, looked to the field the entire time. He watched in complete silence, seeing the vague shapes of the wolves move to the field, waiting for the pack to gather at the edge. Karva watched as the wolves strategized how they would attack their prey. The birds of the death field cawed and chirped between excited picking of fleshy bits that stuck out behind the armor of the fallen men. They had feasted on the zealots first, poorly-equipped as they were, but the crows and ravens seemed to relish the eyes of warrior-priests. Now the wolves made their move and quietly entered the death field.

Visibility went from bad to worse for Karva: the drizzling rain had passed and now a thin mist lifted from the ground, drowning the field in vague silhouettes and imperceptible movement. Karva guessed at shapes, listening closely to the growls and caws as they increased. There was another battle being fought there and the prize of conquest was the flesh of the dead. The wolves invaded and conquered the portion closest to the tree line. In the end, the conflict was resolved when a great swathe of black wings flew out and circled the death field, only to land a few minutes of cawing later at the edge furthest from the forest. There, the birds claimed the edge of the field with vigor, fighting among themselves more than anything else. The agitated caws created a distant cacophony which irritated and unnerved the survivors. Occasionally, the sounds of birds fighting were disrupted by the growling and barking — proof that the wolves had no qualms about fighting each other for the best morsels of human flesh. Other than those interruptions, the noise of the birds was incessant and the four of them brooded quietly, lost in thought, dozing off mere minutes at a time. This went on for several hours and the night air continued to cool, giving way to a gripping cold that chilled their hands and feet. Then over the course of a moment, the caws suddenly stopped. Karva listened and he heard a single bark which surely told the wolves to be quiet as well. And another moment later, all was unnaturally quiet in the death field.

This alerted the men and they all strained to look between the branches for any semblance of movement. Seeing nothing, the three men on the ground — Smerkel, Huberr, Rusten — looked to their companion perched up above them. Karva, who was watching movement on the death field as carefully as he could, said nothing. He looked down at his companions and shrugged, not noticing anything he could comment about. They sat quietly, listening for clues, watching the darkness in the mist. Then there was another bark, a bothersome higher-pitched noise from a wolf pup perhaps, quickly followed by a pained whine and a hasty retreat.

Karva bent down toward his friends and in a hushed tone said, “There is someone in the field.”

The men looked up at Karva, barely discerning more than vague movement in darkness above them. “How do you see this far… at night… and through the mist?” Rusten asked, doubting the mad Karva.

“Nevermind that, I cannot tell much more than shapes down there. But there is definitely a person walking in there, unmolested by birds or beasts.”

The men wondered who it could be, if not a phantom of the battlefield, perhaps even a revenant rising to take up arms again. Huberr ventured, “Can you see what they are doing?… or why the birds and beasts are suddenly so quiet?”

Karva strained to watch movement. The mist was not too thick to see through, but everything in such low light blurred all too easily. Yet the only vertical shape left was a lone figure, walking carefully among the dead, left alone by the armies of birds and the wolf battalion. All were quiet, observing this lone figure.

The Song of Midnight

In the quiet of night, without wind to cover or to carry the noise, the survivors heard singing rise from the center of the field. The voice was lovely and carried well, though none of them knew what song. It was a pained, melodic tone at first. Sorrow tones and cried words proclaimed loudly for all in the field to hear. The survivors were drawn to the song like a siren, and without a word between them, they moved closer — Karva descending carefully from his perch, the rest already leaving the confines of the tree’s cover. Huberr and Rusten unmade the makeshift alarm of rope and chain carefully, but even when the chains clinked louder than they hoped for, nothing happened to draw away the wolves or the birds from the strange lullaby.

Smerkel left most of his things, taking only the backpack and his weapons, leaving the rest in their camp. The other three more or less copied him, moving quietly to the very edge of the field to watch the singer. There, they saw that the figure was robed and turned slowly to sing all around, and in every direction, the earth bubbled and the mud boiled up the half-buried bodies of fallen men. The birds and the beasts stayed quiet, listening to the mesmerizing song of the enchanter.

Karva spat on the ground, “Bah! She is a necromancer who comes to take the fruits of divine wrath! Cover yer ears!” But Karva did not cover his ears. None of them did. They listened to the lasting lament of song and their souls were soothed. Shivers went down their spine when the corpses all rose at once, turning to listen to the song just as they did. And so Rusten wondered if the fallen men also felt relieved by the song, just as he did in that moment. They felt as though everything would once again be alright. Better than that, they felt as though things had come to an end and would be improving for them and for all who had witnessed this song, so enthralled were they.

The song lasted for what might have been an hour without interruption. When the song ended, they confirmed that Karva had been correct: SHE had sung a song, and now the dead and the beasts followed HER. They could not see much more detail than her long hair draping all around her like a robe. She turned to look at them and they saw the sweet smile spread across her lovely face in spite of the inherent darkness of night. She began to walk to the four men, and as she did, the corpses and animals turned to watch her, but never moved away from where they stood.

When she was three dozen paces away, Huberr exclaimed, “Hail, stranger,” and the woman stopped her approach.

Her voice was sweet like honey, but powerfully projected to them as if she stood close enough to whisper. “Hail to you, strange knights.” She stopped walking towards them. “The gods have brought strife near these woods. Do you claim these souls for your own?” she asked plainly.

The men looked at each other in the ambient darkness but said nothing, for they knew not what to say. Finally, after a tense moment between them, Smerkel spoke up in his deep solemn voice: “We claim only the souls that we carry within. We make no claim of these once holy men.”

The woman walked several paces, apparently satisfied with the answer, and she asked “May I move closer so that my voice is not so strained.”

Rusten replied, “We only carry weapons for killing those who would oppose us. If we are only meant to converse, by all means,” and he gestured for her to approach using his mace to emphasize their readiness to meet her with violence, should she present a threat to them.

The woman approached, her lips tight, nervous perhaps. When she was within a few paces from the four men, she regarded them carefully as though she could discern their features in the darkness. The men only saw vague shapes of flowing hair and a cold smile. Her eyes were hollowed-out points of pure shadow. “You all survived this terrible ordeal?” she asked, gesturing behind her at the death field.

“More or less”, Huberr said.

“I was told none would survive the last holy war,” she said.

“Perhaps you paid attention to the wrong gospels,” Karva retorted with a bit more tonal anger than he meant.

“No gospels will survive the end of this age,” she said as a promise, her smile visible in the darkness. “But surprises are always of great interest to me. Are you not wicked undead? No… No, it seems like you are not. Hm. Are you all reborn for retribution on those who forsook your souls?”

“More or less,” Karva said.

“Nevermind what we are,” Rusten said. “We are simply the last to be alive after the last war.”

“It’s a miracle you all lived. It has significance. I would like to understand what it signifies…” she said, her voice softening to a sweet tone. “Though this is hardly the last war: it is the last war fought for false faith. Only Truth can exist after tonight.”

“Truth is the harsh master of our reality. I hope we can live out our truths in peace,” Smerkel said.

“That is fine. I will leave you out of the wars that remain,” she said plainly. With her words spoken, a great murmur passed over the field as the risen corpses turned in unison and began to march away from the treeline. The birds and wolves watched but did not move much and made little noise, save for a few quiet chirps and low whines. The four men watched in awe and fear while the dead walked away.

“What are you?” Rusten asked.

She smiled again, took one more step forward, and the men instinctively stepped back so she stopped there so as to not threaten them further. She spoke slowly and softly but the men all heard her well enough: “Since you are curious I will tell you my tale while the dead march out to my next destination.” Then SHE began to sing. She sang softly and they heard her song. They knew her. They understood what she was. What she had been and what she had to become. She too was the survivor of a war, but much of the conflict was within herself. When she was a woman, she had brought ruin to her husband prince due to her folly and jealousy. She ruined her husband and loved him still. The men noted she wore no ring at her fingers, and held no adornments whatsoever, her robe merely an extension of her long braids woven to cover her form. She had nearly perished and once she had decided to return to the world, she found herself cursed by the choices she had made. She associated with devils and gods then, but yesterday the earth quaked and the gods and devils all vanished. She knew this was the new age which would see her freed and empowered to end all strife. Under her guidance, all could have what they deserved, which was a half-life state of being: awoken repose for the obedient dead, contemplative life for those who still had conscious thought and a beating heart. All would be equal under SHE.

She finished her song as dawn’s light pushed away the clouds in the East. The four men noticed that the dead had shuffled out of the field along with the wolves who followed them. Then a great cloud arose made up of ravens, crows, vultures, and all of the other curious birds of the woods who had feasted on the field’s dead.

The beating of wings grew distant, and after an awkward silence, Karva exclaimed, “Well, fuck all of that!” and released a bolt from the strapped crossbow under his rags. The bolt suddenly appeared at her neck and she swayed backwards, her eyes wide with fear and panic, a jet of blood spraying out at the seam of her wound. She teetered back, holding out her hands in front of her as if to keep the men from attacking her further. She lost her footing, suddenly disappearing into one of the great quake pits of the battlefield.

“You fool! She will kill us!” Huberr yelled at Karva.

“Then we better finish her off if that bolt did not do it proper!” Rusten said.

Smerkel looked white as a ghost but he nodded. The four men rushed to the edge of the pit. Looking down, the only glow of the sky afforded too little purchase into that wretched mudhole and they did not spot her at first. She was sitting and pulling the bolt out of her neck, a great spilling of bright red blood reaching over the edge of the hole. She reached a hand out, as if for help, when she locked her eyes with Smerkel. He saw her eyes then. A woman’s eyes. Not a demon’s, nor a witch’s. A woman’s eyes filled with fearful tears, begging him for aid. Smerkel descended into the pit to help her while the others yelled after him.

“Help me, Smerkel… please help me! Urg!” she pleaded, her voice a harsh gurgling whisper erupting in blood. In a fit of fear and doubt, Smerkel reached her and hit her outstretched arms with his sword, knocking both her hands down onto the muddy ground. The woman’s eyes widened, and suddenly Smerkel could no longer see them at all, so engulfed in darkness they were. He started yelling out and hacking at her limbs and her head, chopping her flesh easily as she was without armor or shield to protect her. She screamed out in abhorrence and pain. The scream echoed out of the pit long after she had collapsed from the blows and her body became motionless. The scream still echoed when Rusten, Huberr and Karva grabbed Smerkel and hoisted him out of the pit, now the final grave of SHE.

Survivors of the New Dawn

Smerkel, on his knees at the feet of his companions, cried out in horror at what he had just done! “She was just a woman! She was just a woman who may have needed our help!”

Karva slapped him. “She was a vile woman tempting us to stray from the gods, you absolute fool! You cannot believe the eyes that deceive you!”

“You are both fools!” Huberr said. “She was powerful over the dead, and incapable against us — We, the living! She was a possible ally!” He tossed a heavy fist-sized rock at Karva to punctuate his anger. Huberr yelled and jumped on Karva, punching his face with his metal gauntlets. Rusten put a stop to the conflict right away by pulling Huberr into a headlock and kicking Karva in the groin.

Rusten said, “Calm your nerves, all of you! Look!” and he pointed to the East. The sun was rising behind the clouds, the glow was unmistakable. In a few places, great spears of light pierced the clouds and showed them the glory of day. “We have lived through the night and vanquished the wolves, the birds, and even that foul witch or whatever she was!”

Meanwhile, Smerkel was shaking from head to toe. Rusten let go of Huberr and kept an eye on Karva. All three of them gathered around Smerkel and felt sorry for him. Smerkel looked up at all of them, a grimace distorting his face. Not knowing what to say or do, he looked down. Tears poured out of his eyes in spite of him and he spoke in a low tone: “I had never killed a woman before. She… She pleaded me to stop. She pleaded! I thought it was a trick, but she was truly afraid to die. Her flesh was the flesh we carry. She was human. Not a demon. Not a god. Just a person of flesh, like we were.”

Karva sneered and spat in the direction of the pit. “Nay. She was a monster.”

Smerkel looked at Karva and said, “No! YOU! You are the monster! You shot her, Karva!” and he got to his feet and launched an attack on Karva, who simply ran away from him, frightened, disappearing in the thick mist that permeated the forest at dawn. The other three followed after Karva, running to catch up to him.

Karva ran quickly, and Rusten yelled after them as he was struggling to keep up with the others. Rusten and Smerkel stood at the edge of a new shallow pit where Karva had just fallen. Karva was struggling to get his footing in the slick mud, Huberr and Smerkel looked down at him, but made no move to attack him. Smerkel held his sword up in Karva’s direction, but eventually let it lay at his side. He planted it in the ground and held out his hand, kneeling to help Karva out of the mudpit.

Karva looked angry and scared. More scared than angry, Huberr thought. Smerkel helped Karva out of the pit, thinking that this was what he should have done with the woman instead of attacking her. Karva did not trust the others, not one bit, but he could not vanquish all of them at once. He took Smerkel’s hand and climbed out of the mud with his help.

“For what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing, Smerkel.” Karva’s remark caused a deep sigh in Smerkel.

Huberr, breaking up the silence before it began: “Well, what now, boys? We have lived through the night and must now face the hardships of an unknown world where day may again reign.” He paused. “We could continue to survive together, or we may part ways if our accord of survival is at an end.”

Karva was tempted to leave and make it on his own. Smerkel was thinking of avoiding his shame by leaving behind the men who knew he killed the night singer. Huberr saw that perhaps fraternal friendships would be hard to build among this lot. Rusten shrugged.

Rusten nodded to himself and when he looked up at his companion, his tone was accusatory with this lament: “I would like to continue living, and I see that you are all capable enough survivors… But we are wasting our time with inner strife when we should be organizing ourselves for the hardships ahead of us.”

Rusten turned to Karva, “I know you are biding your time to kill us, Karva. I’ve seen the hatred in you since you stabbed me in the foot.”

“I didn’t know you then,” Karva quipped.

“You’ll never know me if you kill me in my sleep and I know that’s what’s coming to me if we keep you around,” Rusten replied. Karva became quiet.

Rusten turned to Huberr and said, “Huberr, you and I have the most in common in attitudes and experience. I see it well enough, but you still fail to understand our situation. For that reason, you cannot lead us, though your advice is indispensable — nay, essential — to our survival.”

Rusten faced Smerkel, saying: “And you! Smerkel. I see the horror you have just faced: your own ability to act quickly and kill with ease when the circumstances require it. I know you think you lacked judgment in that moment of truth, but I believe you did the right thing to ensure our survival.”

“La Dee Dah,” said Karva, mocking Rusten’s efforts. “Is this the part where y’all decide to grab me and put me to death?”

Rusten shrugged. “I was thinking of just casting you out, but you would follow us and slit our throats the moment we caught a wink.” Karva prepared to run again and Rusten added, “But you will not make it very far on your own. Do you even know this region? Of course not. I know who you are, Karva. You were a zealot, too eager to carry out violent orders on the whim of your faith-lords. Now you’re just a senseless angry little turd of a man without a brave leader to point out the real enemy… so you see everyone as the enemy.”

Karva looked down, briefly ashamed, only to look back into their eyes with renewed anger. “Not true! I protected you! I’m a survivor like the rest of you!”

Huberr exclaimed: “Then act like one! Help your fellows survive what is to come and give up your ferocious hate!”

Karva fell silent. Then his snide tone got the better of him and he said, “You would all be thralls of that witch if I had not shot her! If you cannot reconcile that, I hardly see the point of surviving together.” They all looked to Smerkel for his opinion.

Smerkel looked down and considered what happened. “When I saw her, she was gravely wounded by the bolt and she asked me for aid… I was going to offer it, but…” The tears in his eyes had dried out. “She had an unnatural light about her and I thought she was tricking me. And when I hacked at her she fell like lumps of soft flesh. She was weak.”

“She had us in her control. You did the right thing, Smerkel,” Huberr offered as reassurance. “You too, Karva.”

Rusten said, “We should burn her body lest she raises it tonight. If she has power over the dead, she may well be in death’s court.” Rusten’s implication was clear to the others.

Karva nodded. Smerkel looked up at his companions and nodded too. So the men shuffled back, silent as the grave as they sloshed through the mud back to that pit, and as expected, her body was gone. Left in its stead was a nest of snakes writhing in the mud. The men were silent. Huberr patted Smerkel on the shoulder hardily. Smerkel still felt the gravity of regret, but his guilt waned.

Rusten spotted movement ahead of them beyond the field. He pointed it out quietly to his companions and they filed closer to take a look, avoiding difficult spots from the earthen upheaval of the death field. They saw some corpses that had been too far gone for the witch to resurrect, but they were few and far between. The stragglers among the risen dead army formed a rear contingent of slow-moving warriors.

The survivors moved closer and tried to determine where the army of the dead was roaming to, now that they were without a leader apparent. For a time, Huberr discussed the local and regional geography of the area. He had been a company captain early on during the crusade and had managed many scouting operations in the region on behalf of his former lord. He concluded that the dead were headed to the lands of fire and shadow, where the king ruled over the living and the dead. It was a well-known legend to Smerkel but in his mind it was never a real place. Huberr and Rusten both spoke of it as an actual kingdom, rather than the nebulous idea Smerkel had of this land of the dead. Because of the mysterious nature of the kingdom, the men knew little in terms of concrete truths regarding much of the world. For the first time they had to rely on their knowledge and understanding of the world instead of the parables of wise priests and inky bishops. Rusten knew a bit about those who feared the king and their reasons why. He recounted some of the parables and other hearsay of the so-called kingdom of fire and shadows. Karva knew nothing, so he listened to what the others said, nodding to pretend he knew of what they spoke of.

They decided to return to their camp and gather the pilfered things. Huberr wanted to follow the army of the dead and perhaps destroy them before they wrecked havoc on an unlucky settlement in their path. Rusten agreed to this plan as long as Smerkel also wished to follow the dead. They hurried to grab the things they stole from the fallen of the death field and made way toward the filing footsteps beyond the field. Keeping a fast pace in silence, the four of them eventually caught up to the slowest stragglers. They noticed that the birds and beasts that the witch had also commanded were now long gone. Karva pointed out some of the wolf prints in the mud here and there. They went in the same direction but at a much faster pace.

Once caught up, the four survivors slowed their pace, approaching the first lone undead. The walking corpse paid them no mind up until Karva approached the warrior from behind. The undead warrior still wore his gear and Karva carefully lined up his blade with the gap near the armpit. There, Karva thrust his blade and the corpse immediately groaned. The groan was hardly an indicator of pain, but an alarm raised to get the attention of the other walking dead. The others were too far for the groan to have any effect. Not the warrior faced Karva and the others. The face was unmoved, eyes barely open, the face already swollen by rot. The undead warrior was a nasty sight and the survivors grimaced when the blackened blood vomit slowly poured out of the corpse’s mouth as he emitted another, deeper groan. Huberr pointed to Rusten and Smerkel where to position themselves and with their forces combined, they easily hacked and crushed the warrior. Rusten cracked the skull to destroy him, spreading the sickly pale brain matter on the ground.

The men realized that they may as well destroy the corpses that were too far from the contingent of undead warriors to alert the rest. With that strategy in mind, they spent the rest of the day moving carefully, isolating each undead warrior as much as possible, taunting them away from the group to face them four against one. This proved rather safe for a time: the slowest corpses were the ones with reduced mobility. By mid-afternoon, the survivors were getting tired and hungry, for they had not stopped or rested since they listened to the witch’s song.

Smerkel called out to his friends and asked, “Is this what we are reduced to? Killing the risen from behind?” They looked at him, breathing hard after the latest kill. They had taken down a bit more than three dozen undead warriors so far, and they were getting closer to the massive force that marched perhaps a mile ahead of them.

Huberr nodded and answered “Aye. Killing these enchanted corpses is an important deed for us…” He could not speak anymore. His throat was too parched so he stopped and drank from his waterskin.

Rusten continued for Huberr, “An important deed that will seal the safety of the good folk of the region. If we do not do this, who will?”

Karva sneered and chimed in as well, “Pretty soon we won’t be able to isolate them like we have. They are clustered too close together up ahead. If we had nets and spears it would be a bit easier.”

Smerkel said, “I am weary of pursuing them. There are just too many for the four of us to take down on our own, even one at a time as we have been.”

Karva was having fun fulfilling his destructive tendencies and said, “we should keep destroying the corpses. Perhaps we can leave them to their trek and follow the new road they are forming, stomping down these plains.”

Huberr just stopped and dropped his haul and fell to his knees. Exhaustion took him and he said, “let us stop. I think I’m still bleeding too much.”

Karva dropped his things and looked ahead to the walking dead, watching as they marched their slow trek ever onward. Smerkel patted him on the shoulder and reassured that they would be pursuing them as soon as they can. The men were exhausted and after Rusten checked their wounds, he admitted that they all needed a good clean up and patching of the wounds. With the army continuing on, the men took off their gear, removing heavy packs and armor, dropping their weapons and lifting their waterskins. Drinking in big gulps of refreshing water.

Karva was the first to tap into his rations. The others closed their eyes and rubbed their aching joints. Smerkel was laying on his back, looking at Karva, and looked at the deep scars on his arms like he had been whipped until his skin split. The scars were a mess and he pitied Karva’s past life. He quietly passed judgment on him, feeling sorry for Karva’s life as a zealot for his church. Karva looked back, catching Smerkel staring and staying quiet. Karva looked infuriated and Smerkel chose to just look away. Rusten tossed a bit of jerked meat to each of them, and they all nodded in silence.

Because the men were silent, the sky spoke: the clouds rolled thunderous and heavy with the promise of a coming storm.