A Murder of Necromancers

Chapter 8: The Hill Tribes

Airic's cheery smile had drooped for some time now as Gynefra had relayed their story and now, as they approached the rocky cliffs outside Ravenar Bay, he could no longer stay silent. "Oh no. By hill tribes... do you mean..."

Gynefra could no longer hide her enthusiasm. Her aloofness had faded away as she thrilled to the story, and now she nodded with a faint smile. "Oh yes indeed. The High Chief claimed their reputation had spread even to distant lands and I see now that he... was..." Gynefra's otherwise steady delivery had halted now as they reached a point overlooking the bay, and she squinted at the waves steadily crashing against the curving beach.

A boat was wedged into the sands, and figures came together and separated, harsh shouting reaching them even over the sounds of the beating tide. At once the group rushed forward, scrambling through the rocks and leaving behind Airic and Camille.

"Orcs?" Jez asked, pushing through the rocks and onto the sandy beach.

"Not sure," Gynefra replied, Jag nearly bounding into her as they hurriedly descended. She straightened, but in the fading light it was difficult to discern the details. As they rushed forward a spear-wielding man leaped high into the air, thrusting his spear deep into another figure which shambled forward. It let out a wrenching moan before falling to its knees. "Undead," she confirmed. "Mixed up with—"

A concentrated burst of jagged rocks streamed forward beside her, slamming into a zombie as it staggered out from the boat. Shrieks broke out in the chaos and a grimacing bearded man turned to face them. He slashed at them with a wild swing, Jag grunting and parrying the wooden spear away.

"Fool!" Jag roared as the man backed away. His wide eyes flitted from one new arrival to the other. "We're here to," the Dwarf grunted, then whipped his axe forward to lop off the arm of a shambling zombie, "save you!"

A second swing shattered the undead creature's skull. As he fell to the ground, the group of humans clustered together, wavering spearpoints facing in every direction. They gathered around a broad-shouldered man with a patchy white goatee. Shocked though he was, he gruffly ordered the others into place around them, before his eyes widened even further.

"Camille?"

"Lars!"

The wavering spear points lowered as if by common accord as the Wise Woman bounded forward on the soft sand. Gynefra stepped aside, checking the fallen bodies, but she was relieved to see none of them were twitching or moving to rise. All bore signs of decay, and more than a few had noticeable tattoos.

"Who are these people?" the man, Lars, asked as he pointed toward the new arrivals.

"They're friends, Lars. We found them washed up along the beaches. Gynefra here warned us of a coming invasion of the undead... you see now what she meant."

Lars swallowed, but his words were as steady as ever.

"Truly? I... I had thought to examine the craft as it came ashore. Had I not brought a few of my warriors along..."

"They're raiders from the hill tribes," the bearded man Jag had faced now rasped. He had bent down to examine a fallen undead creature, his splintered spear discarded beside him. "See their tattoos..." He sniffed. "Though they are rotted and smell of death." His eyes flitted up to meet Gynefra, his confusion and fear bearing into her soul.

"Gynefra here will explain everything," Camille assured the others, approaching Lars and embracing him in a hug as the warriors around him relaxed. "It's a long story, but she came here to spread the word of the growing invasion."

The Elf nodded, feeling a lump in her throat.

"Then... speak plainly," Lars replied. "Why are walking corpses from the northern tribes desecrating our lands?"