A fantasy writer of novels and comics. Happily talking about fantasy, three wonderful daughters, and the trials and tribulations of indie life.
Death's MysteryThe dead give everything to the living. No matter what it may be. Croyle knew this. He knew it for as long as he could remember. Growing up a peasant on the lands of Baron Pallmour, he had seen the worth the dead men give. When his father had been crushed beneath a rotten oak tree he had been digging up on the estate, the peasants were given the time off to grieve. That had given Croyle’s mother time to care for his sister, at home sick with a fever. The constant care, even in the midst of the funeral, had saved little Mellie. Croyle supposed that the dead helped even those mighty lords and nobles. Pallmour was baron, because his father Ector had been baron. When he had died, Pallmour’s brothers had already been culled by disease and war, and so the third son inherited his father’s title. Death wasn’t just a part of life to Croyle. It seemed to be the reason, the very insistence that life continue on and thrive. It was in the vegetables that he ate, picked fresh and slaughtered, their juices running down his gullet for sustenance. The deer that Pallmour’s knights hunted down were killed, meat filled the baron’s table. The antlered heads mounted on his wall, a rotting testament to his house’s greatness. Croyle spent twenty years of his life expecting death to be right around the corner for him. Not because he was lowborn, though the likelihood of old age seemed much less for him than for the baron. No, he expected it because death surrounded him everywhere he went. The man said hello when the fever came again for Mellie in childbirth. He saw it again for his mother when her back finally gave out in the field. And when the call rang out for fodder to be flung at the Dannisfire armies, Pallmour sent his peasants, including Croyle. Croyle sat in a ditch, whittling. He had on a stiff leather gambeson, worn and tattered, and he felt broiling in the layers of clothing. The day was beginning to cool towards dusk in the autumn breeze, but not fast enough for his liking. Life was rather uncomfortable. He wondered when he would die, when he could finally rest. It probably wouldn’t be today. The battle was over for the evening, and the dead surrounded him. Both sides were rather tired, and depleted. Which meant that those alive were allowed to rest. That’s what Croyle was doing. Taking a breather, before somebody important found him. They were sure to come around soon. Baron Pallmour was less than fifty yards away from Croyle. His fine armor had been punctured by crossbow bolts, his horse gored out from under him by pikes. The baron was always supposed to outlast Croyle, but now his infant son was the baron. There were others, many others that had died, trying to defend the baron. Eight of his knights had fallen, and peasants by the score. Several of them had fallen on top of Croyle, trying to crest over a hill towards the enemy. He had been trapped under them and his damnably hot gambeson, and by the time he had struggled out from under the dead, the battle was over. And now Croyle whittled, and wondered what would come next. Most of the time he just did what he was told. Kept moving until someone told him to stop. Ate when meals were announced. Now, however, he seemed to have no one amongst him. None but the ghouls. Croyle had spotted them when he sat down to whittle. Strange, emaciated things. Leathery skin stretched over bones as they crawled over the bodies. Fingers reached towards the bodies. When they drew away, Pallmour looked drained, though the gray coloring that had started to settle in had disappeared. One hopped over the lip of the ditch, and landed right next to Croyle. Beady red eyes looked up at the whittling peasant. It ran its fingers over the man, questioning with the digits. Croyle continued to whittle. After a long moment the ghoul turned away, and moved on to the next dead body. Croyle supposed they must have been like him. Searching for more death to sustain themselves. While he picked at animals, they picked at battlefields. They took the heartbeats, the death throes. The last remnants of energy of the fallen. They also took the sicknesses. There were more than a few men found late that evening, who by all rights should have died long ago. Fevers broken, ranting and raving about ghouls, and death eaters. Shapes that lurked in the black mists, taking away the final rest. For ghouls did not care for the living. Only death sustained them. As it sustained Croyle. He finished his whittling, and was long gone before anyone in the army could come to find him. Death of the baron had wiped away his servitude, while the deaths of all around him wiped away their memories. Croyle was a ghost to everyone around him. Unknown, unwanted. Waiting to fade away into nothingness. But perhaps, for a little while, he’d see what death had bought him. |
A fantasy writer of novels and comics. Happily talking about fantasy, three wonderful daughters, and the trials and tribulations of indie life.