Bile

Otrem

The doors of the town hall flew open. Otrem stood in them, gaunt face dotted with unshaven stubble had red with anger.

"It simply can't be done," a voice sounded behind him, but Otrem was already walking down the stairs to the square, and the council members could kiss his you-know-what. If he were younger, he might have turned and sent them all to the fiery depths of hell, but he was not young. His knees cracked, each step was agony for him, and he wanted to sit at home on the porch and sip mead all day. But, but the carcasses, and so seven years after retiring, he was here, in Fiedestala, trying to do something when all others refused. Well, almost all. His eyes rested on his companions. He didn't know any of them, except Motremo, until a week ago, but despair and revenge, or even just the simple desire to change something, can unite the otherwise ununiteable.

"Didn't go well?" Motremo stepped in front of him, black as coal, but with eyes as light as clouds floating across the sky.

"It didn't," he shook his head, "they're only concerned about the severed contact with the settlements in the west, and a few massacred villages mean nothing to them." Otrem's words immediately put on alert the young man, whose name he still couldn't remember, Grut, Frut, he didn't know. The others had lost their loved ones, Otrem hadn't. Otrem never had anyone and didn't know what it was like to lose someone, so he had to refrain from these ramblings about massacred villages. They only brought pain, nothing else.

"We'll just have to continue on our own," he added after a short pause, but the young man's scar-ridden face was already drawn up full of anger.

"And how is Stela doing?" Otrem tried to divert attention elsewhere.

"I-I'm, I'm doing great," a shaky voice came from their wagon.

"You don't sound like it," he shook his head and approached the tarp, where he was first greeted by the stony gaze of Speechy, Motremo's sister, whose nickname perfectly described what she never does. She doesn't speak. Just stares and for him, inexplicably, had grown attached to Stela.

"Looks like Speechy taking good care of you," he smiled nervously and finally tore his gaze from Speechy to Stela. Even in the darkness of the wagon, it was evident she was not doing great. She had no injuries, but the bile was taking its toll. Her skin was as pale as a corpse, while her veins and arteries glowed through with a greenish light. Her eyes were dull, lips cracked, and under her arms were dark, swollen boils. Motremo had warned him that the bile could have consequences, that it could infect not just animals but also people, but Otrem didn't want to hear it. He assumed he would just keep fighting off the carcasses until he either got them all or forced the town council to intervene, but now, seeing Stela lying there, he cursed himself for his reckless folly. He should have acted, should have nipped it all in the bud.

"Speechy is very kind," Stela replied and tried to lift the corners of her mouth into a smile, but it didn't go well. After all, she had been hiding her critical condition for at least a few days, so she could no longer pretend.

"Today we're finally setting out," he spoke, though he'd rather disappear and not have to see all he had caused, but some part of him couldn't leave Stela alone with speechless Speechy. Perhaps it was responsibility or just duty, as the leader of their small group, to experience everything good and bad with the others. "And then we'll finally put an end to all this."

"I want to be there," she said softly, aware that it was too much to wish for.

"I'll do everything in my power to make sure you can." It sounded like a cliché, but Otrem really meant it. He would do everything to allow her to stand before the source of all this misfortune.

"Otrem?!" Kati's voice called from behind him. This woman always chose the most inconvenient moments, but her tone was urgent, so he gave Stela one last smile and turned to the dark-haired woman with bronze skin. She was truly beautiful, reminding him of his lover from thirty years ago. If he had stayed with her back then, Kati could have been their daughter, but he hadn't, and now a stunning yet completely unfamiliar woman stood before him. She wasn't alone, though. Next to her stood Motremo and someone else. Farengas, his mind flashed. The mercenary and headhunter was shielding his bearded face from the sunlight with his palm. His left hand, as usual, rested on the hilt of his almost legendary rapier.

"We have a volunteer here," Kati gestured towards the mercenary.

"Well," Otrem scratched the back of his neck, his eyes moving from the smiling Kati, across the shadowed Farengas, to the worried Motremo. "I know you. Farengas am I right?"

"Heh," Farengas chuckled, "who else?"

"Yeah, who else," Otrem agreed. Farengas was a welcome help, but he never did anything without a reason. His nose followed the scent of gold and silver, and this expedition wasn't exactly ringing with coins, so he must have had some ulterior motives. It was quite possible that he was hired by the council to see how Otrem and his companions fared, but that might not be a problem in the end. They needed another arm with a sword, and it didn't matter whose it was.

"So, what? Am I in?"

"Yeah, you're in," Otrem nodded. "Let Kati show you where to drop your gear. We're heading to the crater to the north right away."

"Right away, as in now? To the crater?" Farengas asked, surprised.

"As in now, as in to the crater."

"Alright," Farengas lowered his palm, revealing blue, shining eyes, and offered his hand. Otrem accepted it with almost imperceptible hesitation.

"Kati will show you the ropes, and then we'll sit down and chat in the evening." 

Farengas nodded, probably not expecting how quickly his decision would take effect.

"There's a lot to do," Kati added, waving for the mercenary to follow her. Otrem froze instantly; that movement, that single gesture completely captivated him. He had followed it countless times and almost set off with Farengas behind Kati, like he once did with his youthful love, who Kati so closely resembled. Could she possibly be—

"You made a mistake," Motremo interrupted his thoughts. The corners of Otrem's mouth drooped with irritation: "We need everyone, and Farengas knows how to kill."

"But Farengas might decide not to just go after the dead."

"Why would he?"

"Because if he comes back alone, he'll be a hero."