The Unburied

The Dying, And The Dead

Indeed, Hechteur’s moon did draw near.  And as it drew ever closer, the days had come to drag on.  Long had it been, since Aleric had walked the fields of the dead.  More so now, the fields of the damned.  In fact, he’d not been present in a place so accursed since he’d made his departure from the henge.  Twas a peculiar feeling, as well.  It felt as though he were not only among the damned, but among his kin.  Of course, this feeling was not hindered by the fact that the cries of the damned did echo in his ears.  They were calling to him, as the dead always had.  Beckoning, begging for aid, though he could give them none.

This however, was not the case, as he bypassed the cadavers of the fallen Leper Knights.  No, their condemned souls begged him not for undeath, for they’d tasted the sting of necromancy, the festering burn of the Herald’s plague.  The Leper Knights called unto him, cries of wrath, and vengeance.  They beckoned him not to remake them, rather to join them amongst the damned, where their souls may war eternally.  

Feeling a spike of hatred within himself, Aleric beckoned his pallbearers,  “These two.”  turning to yet another cadaver of the fallen knights, he uttered, "This one as well."

As the armoured corpses were dragged off, Aleric continued to the market square, where the Herald of Pestilence (as well as numerous Leper Knights), had fallen.  

Calling up another of his pallbearers, he uttered to the man, as he gestured to a fallen knight of the herald, "Instruct your men.  All who bear this corroded steel, will be our quarry." 

"Your will be done, my lord."  The man responded with a quick bow, before returning to his fellows.  

As he turned once again to the yard of cadavers, he was approached from the far side, by none other than Lucretia of Mallekott.

"Quite the selection."  She uttered, nearly sarcastically, as she approached the Earl.

"A smorgasbord, one might say."  Aleric replied, turning to face the Weaver of Bone.

"Yet still, your tastes remain, shall I say…  …particular."  Lucretia continued, in an implication of the Leper Knights she'd laid eyes upon, being carted off.

Aleric responded, logic in his tone, "They are-  were, mighty warriors.  One so much as withstood the seething of his veins." 

"And nearly slew you, had Sanger and I not arrived."  Lucretia added.

"Indeed."  Aleric replied, "How goes his mending?"  Aleric inquired.  

Lucretia sighed, "His arm is well made once more.  His legs, however, will take time.  Cleaner cuts, make for difficult wounds."

"On that we agree."  Aleric replied.

"On the subject of wounds…"  Lucretia added, evoking a raised eyebrow from Aleric, "There is one, with whom you should acquaint."   

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Sigmund awoke once more (though it was a surprise even to him).  Over the day past, he'd come to know that any closure of his eyes, could very well be the last.  Indeed, the chilling shadow of death did loom over him, in contrast to the heat that plagued him.  Now tormenting beads of sweat remained ever upon his face, evoking a wretched sting, as they trickled into the various wounds that plagued him.  His body seemed to seethe, and burn with the vengeful rage of a thousand score of the dead, a bullet of sweat for every life curtailed in the prior night’s slaughter.  

Though He’d not seen such wretched deeds committed, it took little to imagine the events.  For indeed, he’d scarce survived such a slaughter.  With loathing, of his foes and himself alike, Sigmund recalled vividly the sleepless night he spent, embedded in the mud, nigh buried beneath the corpses of his comrades.   Needless to say, it was a dread beyond recognition, certainly beyond that which he suffered now.  

Such suffering was not interrupted, rather, added to, by the entrance of a middle-aged man clad in a vermillion gambeson, followed closely by the woman he’d come to know as Lucretia.  

The man of raven hair stood beside him, uttering softly, “My Lord.”  

His face was one familiar, in some uncanny way, just as his voice was rather diluted by a silver tongue well known to him, though his previously thin mane no longer was coloured to match.  Indeed, he did lay eyes upon the spitting image of the Earl Aleric Dascule, bearing a face he’d seen only in the distant memories of his few years as but a lad. 

Sigmund uttered, in a voice that carried his breath, “I see Lucretia’s cleansings have restored you, at least.”  A tone of humour, scarcely noticeable, accompanied his words.    

“Tis a wish of mine, that the same could be said for you, My Lord.”  Aleric replied.

The gangrenous ruler sighed, stating in a glum tone, “Unfortunately, I see no such thing, in the near future.”      

Aleric sighed as well, as he stood beside the wooden bench, upon which the plagued king did rest.  Looking down upon the man, who’d been one of his closest semblances of family, Aleric knew in his heart what was in need to be done.  

After a moment of begrudging silence, Aleric stated quietly, “Barham has fallen, and I am unable to take your place.”  

Sigmund responded, in an equally subtle tone (albeit, more rough), “Then let the throne go to his son, to Virgil.”  

“I’ll see it done, my liege.”

As Aleric turned to exit the temporary yurt, Sigmund called after him, “As far as it is known,  I fell with the doomed charge." he began, "I should hope for that to go unchanged."