The Death Walker

Sacrifice

The numberer of the village, Jova Lockfort, sits at his desk organizing all accounts of trade that have ensued over the past cycle, tracing countless times over the shortcomings of the village's resources, meaning that when the Sacratyr arrive on taxing day, they won't be happy. Last time this happened, they took one of the children to be raised as one of their own, as a Sacratyr—a soldier with absolute devotion to the god of this land, the god known as Raider.

Jova settles his head in his hands and wipes away the grease from his forehead. Looking up he notices several figures in silver armour marching down the north hill from the direction of the kingdom of Oracuse. His wife, who was chopping wood before, barges through the door.

"Jova there are Sacratyr on their way! What are we going to do?"

He removes his spectacles and rests his quill in the ink bottle of his desk. "That's odd," he says standing and peering closer to the window until his breath fogs against its cold glass. "Taxing day is cycles from now. What could they be doing here?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it. There's a lot more than usual."

"Hm," he pushes his chair into the desk and wraps his fur coat around him. "You get the girls and wait here Eva."

Approaching the Lockfort home a serpian on a horse, dressed in blue and black, guides a small army down the rubble path. He pulls up to Jova's home along with two other soldiers and orders the remaining Sacratyr to move to the great cavern of the village, where the majority of the people live.

The town was built into a mountain, hollowed out by its people. After many years of mining the moonstone for the village's god, the cavern now echoes deep with hundreds of dwellings, as it was constantly expanded with every mining expedition within its depths. Now the great mountain is more of a hollow shell, protecting the people from the cold winters and providing a brief recluse from hot summers. This home has become known as Wieldstone, a place where the people are enslaved in exchange for protection by the Sacratyr and their god.

The newcomers keep their palms on the hilts of their swords as they guide their tax carts through the great cavern. The men snap hard on the reins, paining the slow but strong molochstags—wide grey beasts with the horns of a muskox and the feet of a mammoth, bred to carry the heaviest of loads. The blue-eyed serpian watches as they travel, then drops from his horse, padding his claw-like feet into the snow.

Jova stands at his door, holding his coat tight around him.

"Are you the village numberer?" the serpian calls out as he trudges through the snow, "Jova Lockfort?"

"Aye, that's me."

The serpian meets hands with Jova and removes his round silvery mask, revealing the smile of a pale snake. "Good, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am commander Torris," he holds Jova's hand tight.

"Eh, what can I do for you?" Jova asks, glancing at the band around the serpian's slender upper arm. The band is blue with the mark of Raider's sigil, an indication to which god these Sacratyr belong to. Having rarely seen a serpian in a long while, Jova examines Torris' bent posture. The snake has a long tail with sharp spines that protrude from his back. His body stands in a large s-shape, yet he reaches no taller than Jova.

"Before we get to anything numberer, mind if we speak inside your home?" he asks, leaning in close enough Jova could feel the serpian's cold breath near his neck. Jova tilts back, wary that the commander might bite him with his venom. "It is rather cold out here. And I'm afraid my poor talons won't survive too long out here in the snow."