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Hajra Longshadow saw them up ahead and crouched, feet slipping and sliding over the frozen rocks and soil, almost pitching her warbow at them when she threw her arms about in a wild attempt to not fall on her neck. Not that it would matter leastways, she reckoned. She’d been dead for years. Not like a fall would do much worse.
They looked to be dead too, as far as she could tell. There were three of them at work in the small clearing. She watched them jabbing at the hard dirt beside long torches planted in the ground, making an awful racket. How in the Ground did I not hear them sooner? Probably why they didn’t look up when she had almost walked on top of them, no further than ten strides away. That and the evergreens cramped and packed close like mortals on a busy market street. A really busy, really uneven, and really slick market street with rocks and stones of every size stabbing out from the ground. Good for hunting.
Torches for destroying the dead they find, but why the campfire? I’m missing something. The campfire was on the opposite side of the clearing. Undead don’t need to eat, don’t even feel hunger, and they don’t need to stay warm either. Hajra knew this all too well. Her glossy dark eyes narrowed, searching round, trying to see if she could make sense of this group.
They were wearing commoners clothes with odd one-handed swords sheathed at their belts. No crossguard? Unusual. They were holding long-handled shovels pitted with rust. Past the fire were packs full to bursting piled together next to a huge mound of dark furs. Blankets too? What, are they expecting to dig up a mortal? There were enough furs heaped there to cover twenty men, she guessed. That was it. That and trees.
Pines, spruces, and cedars all still with their green but strange needle-like leaves despite the frost, glistening in the light. In Harja’s mind, it was good to see some color again. Even the dark clouds, a constant overcast for the whole land, seemed to let a little more light through. Still dim, but better. At least it doesn’t rain all the time up here. I’ve almost climbed to the top of the tree with all that rain. Perhaps I could request in my report to be sent up here? Theleden, the threats to this great kingdom must be carefully watched. I know it is a great burden, but I exist only to serve. She knew she’d have about as much a chance of that happening as barging into the Necromancer’s chambers and demanding her soul back.
She didn’t have eyes on Hodjens or Broke-nose, but they would be circling round behind. They had better be, the bastards; she didn’t want to have to chase them through these woods. She could barely walk in this mess and didn’t want to think about running in it. Hajra Longshadow wasn’t much for running. Running away meant being spotted or outnumbered, and running forward meant she was out of arrows. Neither sounded to her like a tree worth the climbing.
They had to leave their horses a day behind, back in the old logging hamlet where she had first picked up the tracks that led her here. Wasn’t much of a sight, that. More like a group of houses and sawmills and flat-carts all set fire to more than once over the years. Must’ve been important once with all the corpses that were there. She’d arrived greeted by a massive pile of the things, dry and burnt husks of long-dead soldiers and workers. Families too, with women and children and the elderly. She remembered seeing at the edge of the pile a mother hugging her kit tight, both charred black. Hajra supposed it was the mother, all the warriors were in ruined armor. A kit wouldn’t make a good shield and even worse of a weapon, but if that’s all one had, it might have been possible.
There was probably a large battle there, long ago when the Great Necromancer took these lands. Long abandoned now, went to Ground. Lumber seemed to be important to warmakers, apparently. Where she was from, deep in the tropics of Kotza, they lived in the trees to avoid the dangers of the forest floor. But the trees outside of her homeland were twigs in comparison. Wouldn’t make well for living in. Hajra the Longshadow wasn’t much for history or military tactics. She was a hunter, a killer.
What are they up to? Hajra had been serving the Necromancer for a few years now, but she couldn’t figure what they were doing. The Necromancer sent units to dig up the dead to add to his ranks, not to destroy. This seemed a waste. Slowly it began to dawn on her. She started to unknock the arrow from her bow, decided it best to switch to the arming sword on her back. It hardly got any use from her, but arrows were shit when dealing with her kind - the undead. Hacking and smashing them to bits was about the only way to take care of them, in her experience. But, she never had to fight the undead after dying herself. How could you fight against him, being under this curse? All he would have to do is snap his fingers and that would be it, no? Snap, and you’d drop like a ripe bolfruit.
“Your name!” One of the three undead asked. Hajra’s left hand gripped tighter on the bow. At first, for that instant, she had thought he was looking at her, but she could see him leaning over the hole and looking down. There was a response, but she couldn’t make it out.
“This one have any worth?” Hajra’s eyes widened and darted back to the packs by the fire. A man stood from behind the supplies, orange light flickering over his untarnished white robes and white hair. He was stocky, sturdy, and held his sword by the scabbard in his left hand.
“Nah, Chief. As mindless an’ dumb as mine two brodders,” the first undead spoke, pointing his thumb at the other two beside him round the hole. Harja slid the arrow back out of the quiver on her right side, placed the shaft over her left thumb, and re-knocked it, thinking quiet thoughts as she did so. That old man was a mortal, as pig-skinned as the lot of them. A living human and he was leading them. She would have blinked if she could’ve remembered how.
“Hey! You cou-”
“Fuck yerself, Alb-”
“Regretable.” The old mortal spoke as if the other two weren’t even there. “Shame, indeed. Not as many mindless as there used to be, but still happens.” He was holding his right hand to the campfire, wiggling his fingers, sliding the sheathed sword in the cloth sash at his waist. “Be good lads, and get it done.”
There was a thump, like dropping a wet sack of grain on a stone street, and the mumbling in the hole fell silent. The undead turned back to the Chief. “Oi, why don’t you drink tha drink an’ be like tha rest o’ us?” The other two had an expression on their pale faces as if they had once asked him the very same question. Chief walked up to him and gestured to the hole.
“Because, if I was to come back mindless who would be chief then, eh? You?” She drew back the bowstring slowly, taking aim. Suddenly, when she almost had the warbow to full-draw, she felt the bowstring slack then immediately heard a loud snap. The bow broke apart, flying out of her hands. One half hit her in the knee and the other smacked her squarely in her cheek and tumbled over her shoulder. The arrow, however, was still in her hand, pressed against her fingers by her thumb. She looked at it as if there was something else that was supposed to go with it.
“Who’s there!”, came first, followed quickly by the hiss of steel. If only their swords would break in half when they drew them. Next came a third and unexpected sound. A sound that brought back all the memories of the jungle and the terror. She didn’t feel fear now, but there was the memory of it, and it made her senses sharpen.
The heap of furs stood with purpose, looking directly at her. The guttural growl was so deep it made the ground vibrate. It was the size of a horse, mangy black hair with decrepit rotten flesh showing in patches, and charging at her deadly quick. Loud clicking of teeth broke the continuous growling in rhythm as it chomped at the air over and over, footpads thumping on the frozen ground, maggots dropping from its maw like drool.
She stood, sliding one foot carefully back, and pulled out the sword from over her shoulder. “Shit!” she shouted, throwing the arrow at the undead beast, and watched it snap in two with one of the beast's great chomps.
Hajra Longshadow wasn’t much for running.
They looked to be dead too, as far as she could tell. There were three of them at work in the small clearing. She watched them jabbing at the hard dirt beside long torches planted in the ground, making an awful racket. How in the Ground did I not hear them sooner? Probably why they didn’t look up when she had almost walked on top of them, no further than ten strides away. That and the evergreens cramped and packed close like mortals on a busy market street. A really busy, really uneven, and really slick market street with rocks and stones of every size stabbing out from the ground. Good for hunting.
Torches for destroying the dead they find, but why the campfire? I’m missing something. The campfire was on the opposite side of the clearing. Undead don’t need to eat, don’t even feel hunger, and they don’t need to stay warm either. Hajra knew this all too well. Her glossy dark eyes narrowed, searching round, trying to see if she could make sense of this group.
They were wearing commoners clothes with odd one-handed swords sheathed at their belts. No crossguard? Unusual. They were holding long-handled shovels pitted with rust. Past the fire were packs full to bursting piled together next to a huge mound of dark furs. Blankets too? What, are they expecting to dig up a mortal? There were enough furs heaped there to cover twenty men, she guessed. That was it. That and trees.
Pines, spruces, and cedars all still with their green but strange needle-like leaves despite the frost, glistening in the light. In Harja’s mind, it was good to see some color again. Even the dark clouds, a constant overcast for the whole land, seemed to let a little more light through. Still dim, but better. At least it doesn’t rain all the time up here. I’ve almost climbed to the top of the tree with all that rain. Perhaps I could request in my report to be sent up here? Theleden, the threats to this great kingdom must be carefully watched. I know it is a great burden, but I exist only to serve. She knew she’d have about as much a chance of that happening as barging into the Necromancer’s chambers and demanding her soul back.
She didn’t have eyes on Hodjens or Broke-nose, but they would be circling round behind. They had better be, the bastards; she didn’t want to have to chase them through these woods. She could barely walk in this mess and didn’t want to think about running in it. Hajra Longshadow wasn’t much for running. Running away meant being spotted or outnumbered, and running forward meant she was out of arrows. Neither sounded to her like a tree worth the climbing.
They had to leave their horses a day behind, back in the old logging hamlet where she had first picked up the tracks that led her here. Wasn’t much of a sight, that. More like a group of houses and sawmills and flat-carts all set fire to more than once over the years. Must’ve been important once with all the corpses that were there. She’d arrived greeted by a massive pile of the things, dry and burnt husks of long-dead soldiers and workers. Families too, with women and children and the elderly. She remembered seeing at the edge of the pile a mother hugging her kit tight, both charred black. Hajra supposed it was the mother, all the warriors were in ruined armor. A kit wouldn’t make a good shield and even worse of a weapon, but if that’s all one had, it might have been possible.
There was probably a large battle there, long ago when the Great Necromancer took these lands. Long abandoned now, went to Ground. Lumber seemed to be important to warmakers, apparently. Where she was from, deep in the tropics of Kotza, they lived in the trees to avoid the dangers of the forest floor. But the trees outside of her homeland were twigs in comparison. Wouldn’t make well for living in. Hajra the Longshadow wasn’t much for history or military tactics. She was a hunter, a killer.
What are they up to? Hajra had been serving the Necromancer for a few years now, but she couldn’t figure what they were doing. The Necromancer sent units to dig up the dead to add to his ranks, not to destroy. This seemed a waste. Slowly it began to dawn on her. She started to unknock the arrow from her bow, decided it best to switch to the arming sword on her back. It hardly got any use from her, but arrows were shit when dealing with her kind - the undead. Hacking and smashing them to bits was about the only way to take care of them, in her experience. But, she never had to fight the undead after dying herself. How could you fight against him, being under this curse? All he would have to do is snap his fingers and that would be it, no? Snap, and you’d drop like a ripe bolfruit.
“Your name!” One of the three undead asked. Hajra’s left hand gripped tighter on the bow. At first, for that instant, she had thought he was looking at her, but she could see him leaning over the hole and looking down. There was a response, but she couldn’t make it out.
“This one have any worth?” Hajra’s eyes widened and darted back to the packs by the fire. A man stood from behind the supplies, orange light flickering over his untarnished white robes and white hair. He was stocky, sturdy, and held his sword by the scabbard in his left hand.
“Nah, Chief. As mindless an’ dumb as mine two brodders,” the first undead spoke, pointing his thumb at the other two beside him round the hole. Harja slid the arrow back out of the quiver on her right side, placed the shaft over her left thumb, and re-knocked it, thinking quiet thoughts as she did so. That old man was a mortal, as pig-skinned as the lot of them. A living human and he was leading them. She would have blinked if she could’ve remembered how.
“Hey! You cou-”
“Fuck yerself, Alb-”
“Regretable.” The old mortal spoke as if the other two weren’t even there. “Shame, indeed. Not as many mindless as there used to be, but still happens.” He was holding his right hand to the campfire, wiggling his fingers, sliding the sheathed sword in the cloth sash at his waist. “Be good lads, and get it done.”
There was a thump, like dropping a wet sack of grain on a stone street, and the mumbling in the hole fell silent. The undead turned back to the Chief. “Oi, why don’t you drink tha drink an’ be like tha rest o’ us?” The other two had an expression on their pale faces as if they had once asked him the very same question. Chief walked up to him and gestured to the hole.
“Because, if I was to come back mindless who would be chief then, eh? You?” She drew back the bowstring slowly, taking aim. Suddenly, when she almost had the warbow to full-draw, she felt the bowstring slack then immediately heard a loud snap. The bow broke apart, flying out of her hands. One half hit her in the knee and the other smacked her squarely in her cheek and tumbled over her shoulder. The arrow, however, was still in her hand, pressed against her fingers by her thumb. She looked at it as if there was something else that was supposed to go with it.
“Who’s there!”, came first, followed quickly by the hiss of steel. If only their swords would break in half when they drew them. Next came a third and unexpected sound. A sound that brought back all the memories of the jungle and the terror. She didn’t feel fear now, but there was the memory of it, and it made her senses sharpen.
The heap of furs stood with purpose, looking directly at her. The guttural growl was so deep it made the ground vibrate. It was the size of a horse, mangy black hair with decrepit rotten flesh showing in patches, and charging at her deadly quick. Loud clicking of teeth broke the continuous growling in rhythm as it chomped at the air over and over, footpads thumping on the frozen ground, maggots dropping from its maw like drool.
She stood, sliding one foot carefully back, and pulled out the sword from over her shoulder. “Shit!” she shouted, throwing the arrow at the undead beast, and watched it snap in two with one of the beast's great chomps.
Hajra Longshadow wasn’t much for running.