Ekumene (An Original Fantasy Quest)

Outside the keep's Eastern ruined gates the path down the mountain dropped quickly away. It was broad and wide, and on the way up - accompanied by more than a hundred souls now lost to her - it had not seemed the most difficult trek. The way down was almost entirely different. Where it had seemed well maintained and well marched, now it was if Josephene couldn't go three paces without tripping over a rock or stumbling, her toe stuck in some unseen crevice which threatened to tip her over.

Every jolt, every time she caught herself, a bolt of blinding pain went soaring across her chest and up into her right shoulder. Something was certainly broken inside of her, and it was only getting worse as she made her way downhill. She could only hope that whatever it was didn't worsen to the point of self-destruction before she could reach the nearest village.

If she remembered rightly, that would be Monfleur. It had been one of their last camp sites before they had made it to the fort however many nights before, and the locals had brought fresh bread and wine out to Josephene and her companions. The memory was sudden and sharp, a rush of clear images of the men she'd shared so much of her life with. It was followed by a wave of sadness as she realised that one or more of them might now be lying dead in the fort, or in some stretch of grassland on the journey back to the Capital. Fredo almost certainly was.

It was the reason she hadn't looked for Gillaume. If she had searched for him, if she had found some broken and battered remnant of her brother, then she would be forced to face the truth that he was dead. For as long as she had no confirmation that he had come face to face with Katma - in a more permanent way than she had - then she could convince herself that he had survived and would be waiting for her when she got back to Raeen.

She brushed away the thoughts and focused on walking as gently as possible, grimacing with almost every step. The village was at least four hours walk away, though it could be six or even more with the pace she was managing. While she hoped to find shelter, food and possibly even a mount, it would be approaching sun-down by the time she reached the village's outskirts.

She couldn't build a shelter in the state she was in, and without that, her condition would only worsen. If she didn't reach Monfleur, she worried about what would happen.

---

It was not only approaching sun-down but had long since passed into nightfall by the time she finally caught sight of the village. By that point, every step was agony and she wanted to rest so badly it was testing her sanity just to keep moving. But the sight of the settlement in the distance was just enough to keep her on her feet.

The village lay at the base of a hill, on the banks of the river Ebel. Where it passed the village, so close to the mountains, it was barely more than a flooded stream. Further downstream, as it wound its way through the Capital and the countryside beyond, it became the broad, dark flow that she had known all her life. If she remembered rightly, it was little more than a farming community with a temple to Frijja and a marketplace barely big enough for four oxen. It's only true notability was its proximity to the Westing Forts.

From the top of the next hill over, it looked for all the world like any village in Atria as night fell. Lanterns lit, it was a glowing beacon against the horizon, though it could scarcely match the intensity of the signal beacons at Armand's Fort. But, as she staggered down one slope and up the next, she realised that not all of the light was from lanterns.

Whatever had struck the town had done so with a viciousness she had not seen in all the border wars she had fought. Not only were battles against Atria's neighbour-kingdoms common, but it was not rare that Josephene had been called upon to quash the revolt of some Baron or Duke with ideas far beyond his station and hungry eyes upon the throne of her Father. But in those wars, the countryside was protected. The people were the army, and villages were their livelihoods. A siege might ruin a city, but there was little point in sacking a village of farmers where all the wealth was tied up in a temple nobody dared profane.

Here it was a different story. The village had been savaged by whatever group had come through the area, presumably the raiders that had bested her and her soldiers at the fort. Everywhere she looked there were buildings in ruins. Some had been put to the torch, others had their roofs caved in by some unknown method. Only a bare few had been left standing, seemingly untouched, clustered around the spires of the temple as if its divinity had been the cause of their salvation.

There were a scarce few pyres as well. Bodies, charred black, had obviously been piled for burning and then set ablaze. She wondered since she had seen no attempt to do anything of the sort at the site of the battle, f it had been done after the raiders had come. If, then, it had been the survivors of the sack who had piled the bodies of their dead and lit them to bring their souls to Katma's notice. It couldn't possibly have been a pleasant task.

Embers still glowed amongst the ruined buildings where they had been burned, and those that were still standing were lit up far beyond the norm. Lanterns hung on every available hook. Windows were boarded, doors surely barricaded from the inside. As she staggered into the marketplace, she went entirely unchallenged from any corner. The entire place was deathly silent. It was unnerving to the point of nervousness, a shiver creeping across her night-cooled skin.

"Hello?" She called as she reached the stone that marked the centre of the village, leaning against it heavily. There was a pool of water in a basin carved from the stone. It was all too tempting to a woman who'd barely let a drop pass her lips since she left the fort behind and she quickly cupped some of the deliciously cool liquid in her hand and raised it to her lips. It trickled down her chin, splattering on the ground at her feet.

"Hello?!" She called again, louder this time. A commotion from behind a boarded window drew her attention to a building that may have once served as a traveler's rest stop but was apparently now a refuge. "If there's someone there, I need some help."

"We'll not fall for your trap, you bastards!" A voice shouted back.

How do you respond?
[ ] Open the door, in the name of the King!
[ ] Please, I'm hurt and I need help.
[ ] Fine. (Search the ruins for supplies and move on).
[ ] Go to the temple instead and beseech Frijja for salvation.
[ ] Write in.

"This is no trap!" She called back, voice catching as a lancing pain made her vision go white. She had to get them to see the truth of it, but it seemed her pleas were having no impact. It made sense, really, that they would be distrustful of the wounded voice in the dark. She would have been in their position. The hurt wanderer, carrying poison, or weapons, or simply to hold the door open for her sharp blade carrying compatriots hiding out in the dark. It was the stuff of bad adventure stories told around campfires and tavern tables.

But she had another choice than simply playing on their pity. The signet ring on her finger, a mark of her patronage and parentage both, would prove her as a servant of the royal house of Antia.

"In the name of King Stephen, you will open this door!" She said loud enough for her voice to carry, filling her voice with every shred of command and determination she could summon up. In her own head she sounded weak, a cold and hungry child keening for salvation. She hoped they wouldn't hear what she did.

There was a long, near silent, wait after she spoke. She felt encouraged that she wasn't immediately dismissed, but what could the wait mean. Were they arguing? Discussing whether to let her in or cut her down or simply leave her to die on their doorstep…

She wouldn't give them the chance. She wasn't going to die here when safety was just ten yards and a barricaded door away. She walked forwards, shield hanging from her arm and-

As she reached the door, prepared to furiously hammer on it in frustration, it opened. Dim light spilled from inside, as did warmth and the smell of something which could only have been cooking meat.

"The king?" A small voice asked.

"The king." She confirmed gratefully, but when she made to enter the door was held firm, open just enough to speak around it.

"Who are you to offer the name of King Stephen?" The voice was still suspicious, filled with doubt.

"I am his Housecarl. My sword is sworn to him." She held out her right fist slowly, gold signet glinting in the light coming from the doorway. More waiting, shivering with the sun now completely gone from the sky.

"Come on." The voice said, the door swinging open fully this time. Josephene staggered through the doorway and into the comparative warmth of the building.

It was long, low, and while lit it was not bright. She counted at least ten faces in a single quick look around, most bundled in furs or blankets. A large fire dominated, over which hung pots in which something unidentifiable was bubbling. And still, there was the overwhelming smell of cooking meat, a smell which made her stomach rumble almost audibly.

More pressing were the three nearest people who closed in on her as the door swung shut. One dropped a bar across the door before backing up, a long blade held out so the tip wavered far too close to Josephene's skin for her to be comfortable. The holder was young, a woman by assumption, with a floor length cloak covering all but her arm and her face. The second was a man, robed in ochre and azure. She'd have bet her meager fortune on his being a priest, though what he was doing away from his temple she wouldn't like to guess. She had seen what must have been his usual domain from the square, dark and silent. A temple so quiet was a horrible thing.

The third of them was another man, older, bearded and tired. He had no distinguishing marks that allowed her to assess him. That worried her more than either of the other two possibly could manage. He was unassuming. The unassuming were almost always the most dangerous.

Still, even so, she was as safe as she was going to be for the next few hours. Her shield hit the floor moments before her pack did and she stretched as the great weight was suddenly lifted. A wince at the pain that chose that moment to strike was unavoidable.

"You're hurt?" The young priest's face went from caution to concern in the time it took for her to straighten up again.

"My chest," she nodded, hand reaching for her side.

"Come here," he said, "I have salves."

"Father, don't be too trusting-" The girl started,

"She's a king's man, girl, any could see that." The older bearded man cut her off, shooting her a foul look.

The priest led her to sit beside the fire and she spent a moment enjoying the heat that came crackling off the desultory flame. It was lacking, the pile of wood beside it even more so, but it was marvelous for a woman who had spent hours exposed to the elements. He pulled several of the pots down from above the fire, removing small lids and sniffing at their contents. Finally, he settled on two of them and motioned for her to remove her clothes.

She was glad that she'd crawled out of the mail back at the fort if only so that she wouldn't have to go through that humiliating shuffle in front of people. Instead, she was able to simply peel her tunic off of sweat-stained skin and pull it up under her arms.

The salve he rubbed into the side of her chest was bitterly cold despite having been hanging over the fire. The smell of mint hit her nose so strongly if felt like somebody had pushed crushed leaves directly up her nose. But, nonetheless, it was soothing. The coolness sank into her skin and numbed the soreness below.

It was a short lived relief though, as the priest pulled a roll of cloth from somewhere within his robes. They were flowing, but she hadn't realised they were so voluminous as to be a hiding place for a healers materials. These he wound slowly around her chest, pulled tight to keep her broken ribs in place. It hurt. In fact, it hurt a hell of a lot, but it meant that she would be able to carry on her journey without putting herself in any danger simply by walking. She'd seen a man die as he suffocated on his own blood when a lung was punctured and she'd sworn then that she'd never go out that way.

"D'you have food?" She asked as he finished his work. Feeling the twinge as she shifted, she might have wished for the healing hands of a mage from the Capital but it was the best she was going to find out here in rural Atria.

"We have some stew, I think. Martin?" The priest turned to the older man. A bowl was thrust in front of her which held a small amount of what might have been considered stew or may have been boiled water with unidentifiable lumps of something in it. She dug in despite her concerns, hunger outweighing uncertainty.

"I thought I smelled meat, father," Josephene said, chewing hungrily on what she'd been given.

"Oh-"

"It's flesh." The youngest woman said, dropping onto the floor beside the fire. "They burned our village. Burned us." She dropped the cloak that covered her arm, revealing the yellowing bandages that were tied around it. "I'm not the only one, or the worst."

She felt suddenly nauseous, putting her bowl down and pushing it away. She'd been considering some of the dried meat that was buried in her pack, but suddenly it seemed a poor choice of snack.

A change of suspect might be a better choice, she thought.

"Do you know who they were?"

"Barely an idea. We've seen raiders before, now and then, or so my Pa said. I barely remember the last time, but Martin does." The girl motioned to the older man.

"They're not like the ones before. Used to be we'd put up a fight, they'd attack the smaller hamlets and farmhouses. We had to be tough to survive here, closest to the forts. But they came harder this time. When the men who stood too fell, they started putting torches to everything. Killed most. We're pretty much all that's left of Monfleur." The old man got down on his haunches and poked at the fire with a stick, making it flare for a moment. His face was grim. All of their faces were grim.

"Where were you?" The girl asked, voice tinged with venom, "Where was the King, or his armies? I thought you were supposed to defend us from raiders? If you're his sword, why didn't you stop them?"

"Ester-"

"What." She snapped at the old man, bitterness now clear as day.

There was a beat, a moment of quiet. Josephene looked from the girl to the man, to the priest, and back to the girl. She went over the last two days and everything that had happened, everything she had a feeling she'd lost.

"I was at the forts." Josephene said simply, "At the wall."

The silence went on, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sounds of human life packed into a small room. She shifted, uncomfortable even with the salve and the bandages. This was not what she had hoped to find in reaching civilization. The mistrust. The wounded and the dead. The pain and suffering.

"Why haven't you left?" it was a question that had been pressing on her mind almost since she'd found people still here. It may have only been a day since the raiders came, but even so. Most refugees would make their way to the capital. As the girl - Ester - had said, this had happened many times before.

"It's too dangerous." Martin tugged at his beard, "it's barely been a day. Who's to say they're not waiting out there to turn us into sport."

"I made it here well enough."

"You're a wounded woman. How much sport could you be."

"And you're an old man, how much could you be." Ester gestured wildly with her blade, frowning at Martin. "What about you, Housecarl of Atria? What will you do?"

"I need to make the capital. If my Father is still in Raeen he'll need me by his side."

"In the morning perhaps. You need to rest moreso than any of us." The priest said quietly.

The girl looked from the priest to Martin and back to Josephene.

"Let me come with you. If I can see the king, I can petition him for aid. Martin, Monfleur needs that much." She paused, a wicked grin crossing her face, "And anyway, you're hurt, you'll need another blade if anything happens."

Do you let her?
[ ] You're needed here. I leave in the morning. (Kind, no).
[ ] I'd rather take the priest. I leave tomorrow. (Dismissive, no).
[ ] If you insist. We'll leave at first light. (Uncertain, yes).
[ ] I could always do with another pair of hands. (Kind, yes).
[ ] Write in.