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Albrecht Haymes woke to a beautifully clear blue sky alive with the soothing chirp of charming native birds and the sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air. He could hear the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze of midday and could picture just how poetically they danced to the winds without even catching a single glimpse of green foliage. He’d probably have enjoyed the scene more if it wasn’t for the concussion he most certainly was nursing.

   After the world stopped spinning like a topless elf on a Goldshire mailbox, Haymes attempted to sit up. He could feel thick cords tighten around his wrists and ankles as he moved. Though he did not necessarily object against the occasional sojourn into the fine world of ropes, knots, and leather riding crops, he did find it distinctly unwelcome after waking from a rather nasty head wound.

   Okay, he thought in the privacy of his own aching head. What was it the Sarge always said? Assess the situation, observe your surrounds, and formulate a rational plan of action. Sensible words for someone who died stepping on a goblin land mine.

   He did so, and several facts immediately fought for his attention.

   Haymes had been the gunnery captain for Hearthglen’s outer defenses for a few years now, and he’d seen the Crusade’s ballista from many different angles. He’d never actually seen it from the point of view of the bolt however. He could see the ropes that bound him wrapped firmly around the large, slotted arrow, and the tension on the safety latch made the entire mechanism vibrate with a latent viciousness.

   The surrounding area was quite familiar to him though; a minor defensive position overlooking the town on a lonely hill. He wondered for a moment at the position of the foliage overhead, and deduced that the weapon must have been dragged around to face the town. It was a mystery why the crew would have done this, but the strong scent of fresh blood forestalled any question of what had become of them.

   “Wind? Angle?” a shallow voice sounded a few feet from his side. Haymes quickly swiveled his head to glimpse the source. “Lookin’ good. Just dun’ think we got the yardage.”

   The speaker was a thin, shaggy-looking man. His bluish skin looked consumptive, and his bones seemed to push out as if they were trying to escape his body. The hollow man appeared unconcerned with Haymes’s existence and far more absorbed in surveying the town with a small sextant often used by the ballista operators to determine distances and trajectories. The device clicked mechanically every time the man turned the dial.

   “Who are you?” Haymes croaked in a shaky voice. The concussion was still making his vision blurry.

   “I dunno, mate,” the hollow man said with uncertainty. He lowered the scope and stepped purposefully to the ballista’s crank lever next to Haymes’s head. He caught a whiff of the man’s smell and almost gagged. “They say these things can fire up to five-hundred yards, but I got me doubts. What do ya think, Al?”

   Haymes blinked in confusion and rocked his head back for a better view of his capture. He caught a glimpse of two pinpricks of glowing blue light where he expected to see eyes. “W-hat are you doing? Who are you?”

   The figure bent low over him, strands of matted black hair falling over his face. The man’s breath came from his mouth like putrid icicles stabbing at his skin. From the dim light provided by those noxious glowing blue eyes, Albrecht Haymes could make out a pale face sunken with time and marred with cuts and self-inflicted sutures. It whispered through the ages of another face he’d not seen for almost a decade or more.

   “G-Gibson…?”

   Haymes felt a slap across his face as the man pulled back, but only the wide grin on his face hinted that the strike was more friendly than malicious.

   “Never forget a friend, eh? Good motto,” Gibson said in the most cheerful of tones. “Been awhile, I’d say. Thought ya mighta forgotten ‘bout ole’ Gibsy.”

   “G-Gilder,” the stricken man managed to mumble out in shock. “We thought you were--”

   “Dead?” Gibson finished, patting his boney chest with his fist. “Might be, might be. Ya can never tell with some blokes. But can’t be lazin’ ‘round all day long, me ole’ pappy used to say. I mean, I expect he’d say if’n I ever knew the chap.”

   “Your kind doesn’t belong in this world!” Haymes barked, his courage bypassing his slug brain and heading straight through his lips. He could feel his righteous outrage boiling inside him and only just now knew why. The stench of undeath was assaulting his very moral fiber. And possibly his olfactory nerves as well. “Your kind deserves no mercy, no quarter! Let me go at once, and I swear I’ll make sure they kill you before they burn your body!”

   His brave words were barely out of his mouth before he felt his heart leap up his throat after them. Gibson’s heavy hand had drawn the crank lever back another notch, rocking the bolt violently and adding dangerous tension to the cables that made them hum perilously.

   “Now, I heard if’n ya fire a bolt from this thing at full draw, the force o’ release combined wit’ the air friction can sometimes cause the bolt to splinter in mid-air, showerin‘ everythin‘ in its path with sharp lil‘ fragments o‘ wood and red hot metal,” Gibs said ignoring Haymes’s outburst. The man sounded almost wistful as he smiled up at the sky.

   “Think they call it pepperin’ or somethin’. Sounds like a downright bugger to me, if’n you happen to be one o’ those fragments,” Gibson waited for this to sink in before he continued. “Now, we’re gonna have a nice lil’ chat, you and I. And if’n I ain’t hearin’ anythin’ that tickles me fancy just right, we’ll see just how much o’ you I can get plastered over the town hall’s bell tower, eh? Then we’ll be seein’ ‘bout getting’ ya let loose, how ‘bout that?”

   Haymes still bubbled with indignant rage, but words just would not form in his throat. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed what little courage that was left.

   “I’ll take that silence as a yes.”

   Gibson’s joints popped as he knelt beside the man, and Haymes wrinkled his nose as the undead leaned closer to his face. “You know what I want. I know you and that son of a bitch joined up wit’ these nutters together. So, I expect ya can tell me where he is?”

   The captive sneered at the open sky in silence, and it took an openhanded slap to shake him from head to toe. Gibson’s face had twisted into something almost indescribable. “You and your self-righteous attitude can decorate some unlucky lil’ family while they’re eatin’ chicken dinner down there for all I care!”

   Gibson’s hand flew to the ballista’s release lever like lightning and stopped only when he saw his prisoner’s lips move. Haymes’s courage had snapped like a bowstring, and the Scarlet Crusader was almost fighting with his conscience to speak. No sound came from his dry lips, but they seemed to shape the obscure name of Aenor.

   “It hardly matters now,” Haymes said once he’d found his voice. “That coward’s not one of us anymore.”

   Gibson straightened his back with a smug look on his face. “That’s a damn shame for sure, mate. But I assume yer gonna tell me where he is? That sounds like a treat for everybody.”

   It was hard for Albrecht to shrug when bound to a long wooden shaft, but he still managed it. “Light only knows. Started spouting nonsense and heresy about our missions in Northr… in the north. Said it was folly, that our true target should be Lordareon. Our home. Ran off with a bunch of our number months ago. Started something called the Remanant.”

   Gibson’s sour look jolted more hasty words from the crusader’s recollection. Nothing motivates more than a man with a finger on a trigger that large. “S-seem to remember hearing they caught one of his men around Tyr’s Hand awhile back. Probably have him locked up in the Scarlet Hold if they haven’t hung him already.”

   The awkward silence that followed grated on Haymes’s already tattered nerves. He watched his capture like a hawk, searching his curious features for any sign of malice or displeasure. After a painfully long wait, Gibson nodded to no one in particular and turned away from him. Albrecht heard the sound of rummaging and craned his neck to get a better look.

   The undead had retrieved a large battered leather-bound book from a pile of personal effects and was thoughtfully flipping through the moldering pages. He seemed to be ignoring Haymes in the most infuriating manner possible.

   After what he felt a respectful amount of time, Albrecht cleared his throat loudly and pointedly. “I believe you said something about releasing me after our little chat? I think I've satisfied your curiousity, haven't I?”

   The confused reaction he received almost looked genuine. The man nodded slowly and scratched his chin as he spoke, “Ah, right. Sorry, mate. Knew I was forgettin’ somethin‘.”

   Gibson’s boot made a satisfying sound as he kicked the firing mechanism.

----------------

   The sound of splintering wood had nearly died away as Gibson finally located the correct page. He licked the sharp end of his pencil and drew one careful line through the name Lt. Albrecht William Haymes. When he’d finished, the hollow-faced man took a moment to look over the top of his ledger and let out a faint sigh of disappointment.

“Damn. Almost hit the schoolhouse.”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Albrecht Haymes woke to a beautifully clear blue sky alive with the soothing chirp of charming native birds and the sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air. He could hear the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze of midday and could picture just how poetically they danced to the winds without even catching a single glimpse of green foliage. He’d probably have enjoyed the scene more if it wasn’t for the concussion he most certainly was nursing.

   After the world stopped spinning like a topless elf on a Goldshire mailbox, Haymes attempted to sit up. He could feel thick cords tighten around his wrists and ankles as he moved. Though he did not necessarily object against the occasional sojourn into the fine world of ropes, knots, and leather riding crops, he did find it distinctly unwelcome after waking from a rather nasty head wound.

   Okay, he thought in the privacy of his own aching head. What was it the Sarge always said? Assess the situation, observe your surrounds, and formulate a rational plan of action. Sensible words for someone who died stepping on a goblin land mine.

   He did so, and several facts immediately fought for his attention.

   Haymes had been the gunnery captain for Hearthglen’s outer defenses for a few years now, and he’d seen the Crusade’s ballista from many different angles. He’d never actually seen it from the point of view of the bolt however. He could see the ropes that bound him wrapped firmly around the large, slotted arrow, and the tension on the safety latch made the entire mechanism vibrate with a latent viciousness.

   The surrounding area was quite familiar to him though; a minor defensive position overlooking the town on a lonely hill. He wondered for a moment at the position of the foliage overhead, and deduced that the weapon must have been dragged around to face the town. It was a mystery why the crew would have done this, but the strong scent of fresh blood forestalled any question of what had become of them.

   “Wind? Angle?” a shallow voice sounded a few feet from his side. Haymes quickly swiveled his head to glimpse the source. “Lookin’ good. Just dun’ think we got the yardage.”

   The speaker was a thin, shaggy-looking man. His bluish skin looked consumptive, and his bones seemed to push out as if they were trying to escape his body. The hollow man appeared unconcerned with Haymes’s existence and far more absorbed in surveying the town with a small sextant often used by the ballista operators to determine distances and trajectories. The device clicked mechanically every time the man turned the dial.

   “Who are you?” Haymes croaked in a shaky voice. The concussion was still making his vision blurry.

   “I dunno, mate,” the hollow man said with uncertainty. He lowered the scope and stepped purposefully to the ballista’s crank lever next to Haymes’s head. He caught a whiff of the man’s smell and almost gagged. “They say these things can fire up to five-hundred yards, but I got me doubts. What do ya think, Al?”

   Haymes blinked in confusion and rocked his head back for a better view of his capture. He caught a glimpse of two pinpricks of glowing blue light where he expected to see eyes. “W-hat are you doing? Who are you?”

   The figure bent low over him, strands of matted black hair falling over his face. The man’s breath came from his mouth like putrid icicles stabbing at his skin. From the dim light provided by those noxious glowing blue eyes, Albrecht Haymes could make out a pale face sunken with time and marred with cuts and self-inflicted sutures. It whispered through the ages of another face he’d not seen for almost a decade or more.

   “G-Gibson…?”

   Haymes felt a slap across his face as the man pulled back, but only the wide grin on his face hinted that the strike was more friendly than malicious.

   “Never forget a friend, eh? Good motto,” Gibson said in the most cheerful of tones. “Been awhile, I’d say. Thought ya mighta forgotten ‘bout ole’ Gibsy.”

   “G-Gilder,” the stricken man managed to mumble out in shock. “We thought you were--”

   “Dead?” Gibson finished, patting his boney chest with his fist. “Might be, might be. Ya can never tell with some blokes. But can’t be lazin’ ‘round all day long, me ole’ pappy used to say. I mean, I expect he’d say if’n I ever knew the chap.”

   “Your kind doesn’t belong in this world!” Haymes barked, his courage bypassing his slug brain and heading straight through his lips. He could feel his righteous outrage boiling inside him and only just now knew why. The stench of undeath was assaulting his very moral fiber. And possibly his olfactory nerves as well. “Your kind deserves no mercy, no quarter! Let me go at once, and I swear I’ll make sure they kill you before they burn your body!”

   His brave words were barely out of his mouth before he felt his heart leap up his throat after them. Gibson’s heavy hand had drawn the crank lever back another notch, rocking the bolt violently and adding dangerous tension to the cables that made them hum perilously.

   “Now, I heard if’n ya fire a bolt from this thing at full draw, the force o’ release combined wit’ the air friction can sometimes cause the bolt to splinter in mid-air, showerin‘ everythin‘ in its path with sharp lil‘ fragments o‘ wood and red hot metal,” Gibs said ignoring Haymes’s outburst. The man sounded almost wistful as he smiled up at the sky.

   “Think they call it pepperin’ or somethin’. Sounds like a downright bugger to me, if’n you happen to be one o’ those fragments,” Gibson waited for this to sink in before he continued. “Now, we’re gonna have a nice lil’ chat, you and I. And if’n I ain’t hearin’ anythin’ that tickles me fancy just right, we’ll see just how much o’ you I can get plastered over the town hall’s bell tower, eh? Then we’ll be seein’ ‘bout getting’ ya let loose, how ‘bout that?”

   Haymes still bubbled with indignant rage, but words just would not form in his throat. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed what little courage that was left.

   “I’ll take that silence as a yes.”

   Gibson’s joints popped as he knelt beside the man, and Haymes wrinkled his nose as the undead leaned closer to his face. “You know what I want. I know you and that son of a bitch joined up wit’ these nutters together. So, I expect ya can tell me where he is?”

   The captive sneered at the open sky in silence, and it took an openhanded slap to shake him from head to toe. Gibson’s face had twisted into something almost indescribable. “You and your self-righteous attitude can decorate some unlucky lil’ family while they’re eatin’ chicken dinner down there for all I care!”

   Gibson’s hand flew to the ballista’s release lever like lightning and stopped only when he saw his prisoner’s lips move. Haymes’s courage had snapped like a bowstring, and the Scarlet Crusader was almost fighting with his conscience to speak. No sound came from his dry lips, but they seemed to shape the obscure name of Aenor.

   “It hardly matters now,” Haymes said once he’d found his voice. “That coward’s not one of us anymore.”

   Gibson straightened his back with a smug look on his face. “That’s a damn shame for sure, mate. But I assume yer gonna tell me where he is? That sounds like a treat for everybody.”

   It was hard for Albrecht to shrug when bound to a long wooden shaft, but he still managed it. “Light only knows. Started spouting nonsense and heresy about our missions in Northr… in the north. Said it was folly, that our true target should be Lordareon. Our home. Ran off with a bunch of our number months ago. Started something called the Remanant.”

   Gibson’s sour look jolted more hasty words from the crusader’s recollection. Nothing motivates more than a man with a finger on a trigger that large. “S-seem to remember hearing they caught one of his men around Tyr’s Hand awhile back. Probably have him locked up in the Scarlet Hold if they haven’t hung him already.”

   The awkward silence that followed grated on Haymes’s already tattered nerves. He watched his capture like a hawk, searching his curious features for any sign of malice or displeasure. After a painfully long wait, Gibson nodded to no one in particular and turned away from him. Albrecht heard the sound of rummaging and craned his neck to get a better look.

   The undead had retrieved a large battered leather-bound book from a pile of personal effects and was thoughtfully flipping through the moldering pages. He seemed to be ignoring Haymes in the most infuriating manner possible.

   After what he felt a respectful amount of time, Albrecht cleared his throat loudly and pointedly. “I believe you said something about releasing me after our little chat? I think I've satisfied your curiousity, haven't I?”

   The confused reaction he received almost looked genuine. The man nodded slowly and scratched his chin as he spoke, “Ah, right. Sorry, mate. Knew I was forgettin’ somethin‘.”

   Gibson’s boot made a satisfying sound as he kicked the firing mechanism.

----------------

   The sound of splintering wood had nearly died away as Gibson finally located the correct page. He licked the sharp end of his pencil and drew one careful line through the name Lt. Albrecht William Haymes. When he’d finished, the hollow-faced man took a moment to look over the top of his ledger and let out a faint sigh of disappointment.

“Damn. Almost hit the schoolhouse.”