The Book of Terrus: A Land of Sunlight

Chapter 3 - Out, Brief Candle

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Tarun stumped down from the wall of the barracks just as the first cock began to crow. It had been a long if mostly quiet night and he was mightily looking forward to a few hours of sleep before afternoon drills. The other night watchmen mumbled a few words to each other in the armory as they turned in their spears and bows. Even that much chatter felt like a waste of precious energy to Tarun at this point. Blinking blearily, he simply followed the rest toward the bunks. It wasn't home, but freshly thatched and with clean bedding inside, the bunk building looked pretty good right about now. Any moment now, the morning bell would ring and summon the rest of the Fourth to breakfast. That was none of Tarun's concern though. Right now, his only concern was the exact shape and texture of his waiting pillow.

They were only steps away from the bunk house door when shouting erupting from inside. It was hard to make out, but it sounded like Garrit, intermingled with Hengar and several others. Their voices rang heavy with shock and dismay. A cold feeling like icy rain slithered down Tarun's spine, prompting him to rush ahead of the other watchmen into the bunks.

A crowd was gathering in the corner where the men of Trosk bedded. It was impossible to see what was going on past the muddle of heads, shoulders and legs. Even non-mountainfolk soldiers from the rest of the Fourth were rushing over, which told Tarun that there was either a fight...or something far, far worse. Now enveloped head to toe in that icy feeling of dread, Tarun pushed his way through the crowd. His boot stuck to something tacky on the packed earth floor, and the sole came away spotted dull red.

Garrit crouched in the center of the crowd, on his knees beside an empty bunk with Calder's limp body propped in his lap. The innkeeper's face was ashen, mouth ajar, his shirt and breeches dark and sticky with blood not yet dried. One hand fell limply to the ground, and Tarun's eyes went immediately to the long, deep trench carved along Calder's wrist. A bloodied dinner knife lay just on the edge of sight beneath Calder's bunk, its painted blade shamelessly peeking out into the morning light.

'That's two men now who have followed into the grave on Yelaina's heels' was the first thought that came to Tarun's half-disbelieving mind. Any further reactions to last night's suicide were halted by the arrival of the commanding officers, including Pedrum...and Jerriod.

"Make way, make way!" Pedrum shouted. The men fell back, allowing a clear view of Calder's corpse in Garrit's arms. Garrit's hands were bloody, and he looked up at Jerriod with tears running into his beard.

"He's dead...by his own hand. Dead..."

Jerriod said nothing at first. Standing in silence, only marginally more dressed than his men with boots on his feet, the captain of the Fourth took in the woe on the men of Trosk's faces. Some like Hengar and Borse stood grave and unmoving, their jaws set in firm refusal to show their grief in front of soldiers. Others like Thyge the baker, one of Calder's oldest friends, freely wept with his face in his hands.

"Mark well what I tell you now, men. Self-murder..." said Jerriod "...does not mean an end to suffering. It merely forces others to bear your suffering in your stead. Those on the night watch, step forward."

The cold feeling of dread which had come over Tarun in the yard now congealed in a solid lump in his gut. Aware of the hundreds of eyes upon him, he had no choice but to join the other seven watchmen in identifying themselves. Jerriod's gaze bore into him like an auger.

"You were charged with the safety of this barracks and everyone in it from dusk until dawn. Although I cannot hold you accountable for the actions of free-willed men, I do question that not a one of you heard nor saw anything which might have alerted you to Calder's intent?"