Chapter 4: Chapter 4
The succulent smell of roasted meats bathed the small group of loudmouth ruffians as they ate, drank, and celebrated late into the twilight. One among them did not appear particularly pleased with the festive atmosphere. Short, skinny, and wrapped in a green cloak that looked comically oversized for him, Neir scoffed before heading toward his tent.
"Oi! Neir! What's the matter? Where ya going? C'mon, have a drink wi—whoa, this is nice! Where'd ya get it?"
A particularly drunk brute named Drund threw his log-like arm around the unwilling Neir before cutting himself off to examine the cloak. It was a dark emerald colour, adorned with intricately sewn leaf patterns. What truly caught Drund's eye was the pattern in the middle, a large willow tree ornamented with tiny gems that glittered like stars.
Although much smaller, Neir managed to slip out of the hulking man's grasp, thanks largely to Drund's intoxication. He quickly darted further away, heading toward the edge of their camp. Neir only stopped when he saw a tall, lanky man standing watch, a crude spear in his hands.
Neir paused for a moment before feigning a limp and approaching the spindly figure with an obviously pained expression. When the tall man named Wilfur noticed Neir in his peripheral vision, he slowly turned and asked with genuine concern, "What happened?"
Neir smiled slightly and pointed at his feigned injury. "Oh, this? Don't worry about it. Drund's just at it again. He's actually the reason I'm here. He grabbed one of the goods, you know, 'the pretty girl' you liked so much, and, well... I'm not sure how to tell you this."
Wilfur's concerned expression turned to fury in an instant, and without even glancing back at Neir, he ran toward the large bonfire at the camp's centre.
Neir snickered internally. Wilfur's stupidity was one of his favourite weapons against people he disliked. Although Wilfur appeared frail, he was actually one of the strongest men there, second only to their leader. By morning, Drund would be unable to stand, let alone bother him again. All it took was observing how Wilfur fawned over a particular piece of "merchandise."
This was Neir's bread and butter. At the bottom of the physical pecking order, he had to rely on his wit to survive. The only reason he hadn't joined the "products" they trafficked was due to his exceptional eyesight, which their leader valued. Neir's role was primarily that of a scout or lookout, using his small frame to stay hidden and his sharp eyes to stay safe.
Neir boasted silently, caressing his oversized cloak. He had never considered himself lucky, but today he had truly scored. Never in his wildest dreams would he have expected to find a genuine magical artefact in a pathetic village like that. Once he had the chance, Neir planned to hightail it to the nearest city, sell the cloak for a ludicrous sum, and spend the rest of his life as a rich man. Of course, this was assuming Drund kept his mouth shut, or that Wilfur kept it shut for him.
His ears picked up the sounds of an altercation back near the camp's centre. His smile widened as he daydreamed about how he'd spend his newfound wealth. Then, something caught his eye...
Neir prided himself on his vision, believing that not even a fly could escape his sight. So he remained calm when he saw a figure walking absurdly slowly toward their camp. He snickered to himself again, it must be some poor fool they'd robbed earlier today, thinking he'd escaped and survived, only to stumble back into the lion's den. Or perhaps the unfortunate soul simply wandered too close to the roaring fire that was their camp. Either way, his fate was sealed.
Neir could have tried to warn him or even go out of his way to caution him about the danger, but to Neir, this person was no different from an ant. His life was unimportant; his wishes were irrelevant. In Neir's mind, only one person mattered: himself. So what if some poor idiot died? Poor idiots died every minute; at least he might be able to benefit.
As he quietly observed, Neir's expression slowly darkened. There was more than one. At first, only a second figure appeared in his line of sight, which was fine, but now there were more than ten, and more were appearing gradually.
"Shit!" he thought to himself, trying not to panic. His mind raced to identify who this group might be. Viscounty soldiers? Enemy bandits? Mercenaries? Any of these possibilities spelled doom for the camp. They only numbered twenty-two in total, while this unknown group already exceeded forty!
Wait. He tried to calm himself. Although they were outnumbered, these people might not even be fighters. Compared to their leader, regular people were like rabbits facing a wolf. Clarity returned, and he was about to leave his position to inform the others of the impending battle when, for the first time, he doubted his eyes.
What was coming toward him? At first, he assumed they were humans. In the Viscounty, at least 98% of the population was human, with the occasional Zolfolk slave or foreign noble. But to his horror, as they drew closer, he could discern their true forms.
Bleached ivory bones. That's all they were, no hair, no skin, nothing but collections of bones strung together by some unknown, unholy force. Fear struck him harder than any weapon ever had. He struggled to move or speak; even breathing became a burden. The dead were moving, and they were coming straight for him.