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Shan knelt by the
pit, looking at the bones that covered the bottom of it and
repressing the urge to swear. He could not be sure how many bodies
were left here, scavengers and the weather having taken their toll,
but there were at least seven heads staring back at him, some decayed
down to grey bone, others with strips of flesh and hair still
clinging tenaciously.
“So much for
finding survivors,” the Ranger muttered to himself, standing up and
brushing the dirt from his knee. He glanced up at the sky, watching
the red tinge bleed away into a deep blue. The first stars began to
glimmer, and Shan knew they would be the only light to guide him for
the rest of the night. He briefly considered making camp, and
continuing at dawn, but there were still two children to account for.
None of the remains were fresh enough.
A part of his
mind wondered if he had not made a mistake by taking on this
unofficial mission. There was no requirement, in the code or the Oath
they swore, that obliged them to take on tasks outside of those given
within the chain of command, though several of the older Rangers seem
to believe that there should be.
“The Seal you
carry with you comes with a heavy responsibility,” their elder
instructor would repeat. “You are tasked with the defence of the
Empire, from threats varied and hidden. If you graduate, and take the
Oath, your responsibility is not to follow the orders from your
superiors, but to maintain order and peace throughout our lands, no
matter the cost.”
Those words, and
many more like it, had made a profound impression on Shan during his
training, and he swore, the day he received his commission, to live
up to the heavy expectations of his instructors, and of the Empire
itself. It had led to some less than desirable moments in the past,
as he zealously attempted to solve any wrong that was brought to his
attention, many of which still make the rounds in the Posthouses he
frequents. The veteran members adore telling the newer recruits of
the time Shan found himself infiltrating a brothel, disguised as a
woman, to recover blackmail documents, and how he quickly discovered
it was merely an attempt by a merchants wife to humiliate her husband
by catching him in the same room as a cross dresser.
The howls of
laughter are generally exuberant.
It was through
events like these that Shan eventually learned to restrain his
impulses and plan his outings. The stories remained widespread and
repeated, as any story inside of a closed group tends to, but they
were soon accompanied by real successes. Though Shan would no longer
simply go off the moment he heard of a problem he would always
listen, and store the information in the back of his mind, ready to
be compared to other information he gathered. Matched with his innate
curiosity, and zealous drive to excel, it led him to a long string of
successful missions, most of them from outside official channels.
So it was that,
as he was passing through Gallemsberg on his way west toward Allair,
he heard the locals talking of missing children. His curiosity perked
by the alehouse gossip, Shan began to dig deeper. Wary glances were
dissipated by a flash of the Imperial Seal and eager, frightened
tongues wagged with desperate pleas.
The town had been
plagued, for several years, with vanishing children. The townsfolk
were adamant of the distinction; many children died each year, from
illness or accidents and, rarely, murder, but the disappearances that
happened on the nights where both moons were hidden from view were
different. Some had vanished from their beds, their covers discovered
perfectly made in the morning, others from trips to the market, or
the well. The town had been under curfew on the night of any new
moon, with militia patrolling the streets, and still the children
went missing.
Both moons would
be new that night, and two children had already gone missing from
their home by midday. With the tear strained faces of the parents
still haunting his memory, Shan took to the forest surrounding
Gallemsberg in what he expected to be a fruitless hunt. The mass
grave had been a surprise, one that served to confirm the Ranger's
fears; whatever was happening to the children of Gallemsberg was done
at the behest of an intelligent agent.
“There's
nothing more to do but press on,” he finally said, throwing a
handful of dirt into the open grave.
There were six
of them around the fire, their backs away from it. Each of them was
dressed in a long red robe, with the hood covering their faces, save
for one. His back was directly to Shan, robbing him of the chance to
see his face, though he could make out a heavily scarred bald scalp.
He had spotted at least one sentry, on the far side of the clearing
from where he was hidden, and knew there would be at least two more
somewhere in the woods. He remained quiet, kneeling, taking the scene
in detail for the report.
Next to the
slowly banking flames was a spit, upon which were tied a boy and a
girl. Both were naked, their lips sewn shut and eyes empty black pits
above streaming tracks of red running down their cheeks.
He knelt,
observed, and listened. The language they spoke was foreign to Shan,
seeming to consist of guttural warbling and sharp staccato
explosions. The man without the hood seemed to be leading the chant,
with the five others responding in what felt like rote chant.
Shan's disquiet
grew with every moment. His mind was screaming for him to flee, to
report to the nearest Posthouse, and bring a troop of deputies
crashing through the forest to hunt these six men down. He remained,
however, waiting, his teeth grinding at the sight and sound of the
tableaux. He remained, ignoring the desperate cries for his own
safety, because he needed to see the face of the scarred man. To be
able to confront him, in public, for Infernalism.
His thoughts were
interrupted by a noise to his right, in the darkened woods. He
checked a swear, and slid his hand slowly to his sword, mentally
berating himself for letting his guard down and ruining his night
vision by staring at the only light source for miles. Scanning the
shadows around him, Shan slowly began to creep backwards from the
clearing, hoping to evade notice and make his way out of the forest
and back to Gallemsberg. With some luck, the locals would be
convinced by his description, and the Imperial Seal, and join him in
raiding the camp. With even further luck, they might return and find
someone remaining.
The sound, the dry snap of a dead
branch, repeated itself and was joined by the rustle of leaves to his
back. Deciding that secrecy was no longer warranted, Shan spun on his
left heel, his long blade sliding out of the oiled leather scabbard
at his side. The sentry creeping up on his back was taken by
surprise, and the Ranger took advantage of those few moments of shock
to stab him through the lung, pressing his hand against his mouth to
stiffle the gurgling scream. Had the sentry been alone, it would have
been enough.
Reacting purely
on instinct, Shan dove to his right, away from a downward strike of
an axe aimed at his head. The sudden dive made him lose the grip on
his blade, and the first sentry crumpled to the ground two yards
away, three feet of steel sticking out of his chest. Swearing,
audibly, Shan tore his short blade from its scabbard and prepared to
deal with the axeman and run into the wild.
He did not count
on the scarred man getting involved.
Shan felt a
sudden pressure on his throat, and he turned and slashed with his
sword to dispatch what he thought was a third assailant. His blade
whistled harmlessly through the air, and he heard the second sentry,
the one with the axe, chuckle at the sight of it. Clawing at his
throat, vainly trying to breathe, Shan stumbled away from the
campsite and crashed through the woods. Dark spots were beginning to
appear in front of his eyes, and his chest felt like it was freezing,
and on fire, at once. The pressure relented for a moment, allowing
Shan to draw in a gasping breath, then resumed as strong as before.
Tears streaming down his face, the Ranger collapsed to his knees,
short blade falling from nerveless fingers.
“Well, it would
appear we have a spy in our midst.”
The voice seemed
to float in the night air, coming from in front of the prostrate
Ranger. Looking up, blinking away tears and spots, Shan tried to
focus on the face.
It was scarred,
horribly scarred, a network of lines drawn over every inch of exposed
skin on the mans face. They seemed, to his oxygen-starved brain, to
dance together into an interwoven script, a language he could not
read or comprehent.
Another breath
made it to his lungs, only seeming to increase the pair bursting in
his chest. Shan did not feel the hands searching his body, opening
his pockets and pouches, and extracting the precious Imperial Seal
that every Ranger carries.
“Ah...” the
man said, shaking his head softly. “It would appear that the
Posthouse will miss an expected guess.”
The man who was
searching him chortled again, and pushed Shan down onto his face.
“I am happy you
could join us before the... meat of the ritual. We have so many hours
of darkness left, and it always brings me such joy to entertain an
unexpected guest.”
The world swam before his eyes, and Shan saw
only darkness.
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