We spent the day travelling from Penance to Dromán aboard a small airship named Sovereign. An ironic name, given the age-old desire for Simians to rule themselves rather than to acknowledge our divine, supreme ruler. Alas, that ruler is no more, and the Lady Meadhbh is the closest thing we have for a leader, a true leader, in this war against the Godslayer.
We arrived at the Dromán camp just as dusk was setting in. Those who had come before had already set up a decent fortification around the railway outpost. Chief Engineer Nicole saw to that task well, with deep trenches and wooden palisades surrounding the entrance into the underground tomb.
Now, we’re awaiting the rest of ships from Penance. Our soldiers need rest, but there is so much work ahead of us.
Journal of Padraig Tuathil, 13th Day under the Moon of Nes, AC404
***
In the hours before dawn broke the following morning, four ships sailed softly through the Rustlake in the waxing light. Farris rode in one, accompanied by Plackart and five other Triad scouts. Each wore a gold and blue tabard across chainmail armour, marking them soldiers of the Triad. The tabard was one layer too much for Farris, however. He was already beginning to sweat under his armour. He and the other Simians sat in silence on the deck as their vessel approach Aldrich Canal. Towards the back of the ship, seven elk mounts waited impatiently, grunting and snorting with their faces concealed in nosebags.
The other ships contained no passengers, only a small crew to make the round trip to Point Grey. Those ships were crammed with carts and wagons, bound together as to not rattle over whatever conditions Móráin Sea had in store. The captain of Cornucopia, a sturdy cargo ship, had declared the day to come would be a cold but calm one.
Despite this, Farris was not at ease. So conflicted the Council of the Triad had been in relation to the allocation of Penance’s final stores, they latched on quite quickly to Farris’s plan. Too quickly for Farris’s liking, as this meant their situation would be all the more worse off should they fail. And to ensure the day-long round trip to Point Grey would not represent a long delay to the full army’s departure from Penance, they had taken a crystallographer with them, who’d relay the message back to Penance once the supplies were secured. The mage, a middle-aged man in a green robe, paced impatiently back and forth across the deck.
The ships emerged from Aldrich Canal out into Heretic’s Bay. From there, they turned south towards Moray Head, but Farris kept his gaze locked on the eastern horizon. The sun was low above it now, blocked by thick, grey clouds. He imagined what kind of lands there were out there, possibly battling a storm beneath that same sky. Although Humans came from the lands beyond the sea some four hundred years ago, none had ever dared go back. Partially out of fear of the Grey Plague—the mysterious force that drove them here in the first place, but mainly out of devotion to their faith. Alabach was a promised land, apparently. Though why would a god promise a land already occupied? And why take even further steps to keep everyone trapped there? Argyll the Silverback had often said the Simian people should leave Alabach and let the Humans have it if they were so bloody caught up in the idea of staying.
“I heard you’re the one who escaped the Basilica,” said Plackart, clearing his throat and approaching Farris from behind. “How did you manage that?”
Farris smiled. “It didn’t take too much convincing. The guards there were just as eager to leave as the prisoners. The approaching horde should take most of the credit.”
But Plackart did not laugh. “Sometimes we must give ourselves credit when warranted. Few will do it for you. Many others would have died in your position, along with the other guards and prisoners of the Church.”
Farris found himself lost for words. This was a rare occurrence.
“You are resourceful, Farris Silvertongue,” Plackart continued. “More so than most others. You saw how the council listened to you. We were caught between a boulder and a cliff’s edge this morning, forced to choose between letting the people of Penance starve or letting this Godslayer destroy the rest of the world. But you found an option that lets us address both. That is highly commendable.”
Farris swallowed deeply. Plackart was a well-respected leader in the Triad’s military, to hear him speak so highly about his skills was… surprising.
More so because the Silverback was never one for praise.
“Thank you,” said Farris. “But I fear what happens if we fail.”
Plackart smiled. “Then we’ll make sure we won’t.”
***
The voyage took most of the day, which Farris passed with idle chat among to the other scouts. They retold stories of the Battle of Penance, as most had been stationed at the Goldgate when the dead came. One claimed to have seen Fionn, the Firemaster, leap down from the city walls down into the horde itself.
“Covered himself in a ball of fire,” he said, gesturing madly as he did. “Jumped right down into the undead and burned them all to a crisp.”
“I’ll never forget that smell,” said another. She spoke in a strained, hoarse voice. “Like burnt meat, mixed in with the stench of sweat and piss and shit.”
“Sounds like the time I had to share a cabin with Davin,” roared another. He laughed, throwing his arm around the first scout, whose sour face suggested his name.
Some hours after noon, the ships turned westwards, coming into Moray Head. And some time after this, the smouldering ruins of Point Grey’s harbour appeared on the horizon. Farris shuddered to think that this was the same view those fleeing the city had witnessed when Morrígan attacked; numerous families crammed into fishing boats sailing away from the slaughter, towards an uncertain life of refuge in Penance.
And how many of them died when the horde came back northwards, larger and stronger than before?
No, he could not dwell on that, or on other losses the living had taken over the course of this war… if war was even the right word to use for it. All that mattered now was securing the supply-line for the Triad’s army. And stopping Morrígan after that.
The ships docked at Point Grey’s harbour, which was empty now given the exodus of its people some few moons ago.
“You’ll stay here,” said Plackart to the crystallographer, who seemed quite glad to be docked. “You’re as important a part of this mission than anyone else. Do you have all you need to communicate with Penance?”
“Yes,” said the crystallographer. “I’ve two waves ready: One confirming our success, the other our failure. This way I can send one as soon as we know our outcome.”
“Excellent,” said Plackart. He gestured towards the ship’s crewmen, who were preparing the gang plank for embarkment. “No need to wait for the other ships. Scouts, mount up and see what we can find.”
***
Farris paced slowly through the streets of Point Grey on his elk mount. He always felt invincible upon this steed—the same one that had seen him through the Battle of Penance—but he had never thought to have given it a name. He kept his gaze locked forward on the empty streets ahead of him. From memory, the market quarter of the city was ahead, which surely would have some remaining stock of cured meats and dried food that would still be fit for use.
He rode beside one of the scouts—a light-furred Simian who seemed to have a much better grasp at controlling her elk than Farris did.
Maybe I could get some formal training when this is all over, thought Farris. And then I’ll finally give this beast a name.
As they took a left turn into the marketplace of the city, Farris’s fears were finally realised.
The terror that had come to Point Grey had left the marketplace in a ruin. Mounds of red bricks that had once been buildings encircled a cobblestone square. Pieces of walls still stood, like grey, scorched spectres of what had once been there.
Farris paced through the square, trying to recreate the market from memory. Just ahead of him, a long, low roof hung over a sheltered section of the square. A discarded wheel of a wagon lay before it, with charred wood and broken spokes. This, Farris reckoned, would have been where the various green-grocers would have sold their wares.
And just behind this wall would be where they’d store them.
Farris braced himself for the inevitable sight of broken crates and barrels, their contents scattered haphazardly across the ground by the invading army… but what he saw disappointed him even more.
The backs of the walls were empty. Where stacks of crates and barrels would have been kept, ready to be sold to the people of Point Grey, there was nothing but a bare, dusty stone floor.
Farris dismounted, then crouched down to examine the ground.
Strange. The horde would have had no need for provisions like this. Farris searched for signs of any crates or barrels being broken or smashed, but he found not even a splinter on the stone.
A slow, familiar panic set in.
I was wrong, he thought, his lower jaw quivering uncontrollably. There’s nothing left here. Nothing for the Triad’s men. Nothing for the people of Penance. What can we do now?
Farris’s heartbeat quickened, pounding first in his chest, then its sound resounded through his skull.
I wasted so much time… Morrígan might have killed the Lady by now. Might have taken… taken…
Farris closed his eyes tightly.
No. We can’t give up. Not now. Not yet!
“Sir?”
We could hunt for game in the Hazelwood. Feed the soldiers that way. But… no…
“Farris?”
In an instant, the panic stopped, and Farris opened his eyes. The scout stood before him.
“Farris… sir?” she said. “We found something.”
“Food? Provisions?”
The Simian shook her head. She pointed southwards.
“Outside the village. There’s smoke coming from a barn.”
Farris’s heartbeat surged. Survivors! In a place as hopeless as this?
His face broke out into a smile. To think that some people had manged to survive both the horde and the purged land left in its wake.
Farris’s smile vanished, for he realised what this truly meant.
***
The scouts regrouped at the edge of the town. They too had found very little; far less that what one would expect from a town evacuated at short notice. As General-Commander Plackart explained the situation, pointing towards the thin trail of smoke that emanated from a building about half a mile to the south, the mood changed abruptly. In silence they mounted up, and made their way across the old dirt road as dusk began to set in. This took them uphill, where several buildings loomed ahead. Two granaries flanked a large wooden barn, and just as the scout had reported, smoke poured from a stone chimney atop its wide, grey-slated roof.
“What if there’s someone there?” whispered a scout behind Farris. He got no response, though Farris looked to Plackart for a reaction. The old Simian pretended not to hear, despite being well within earshot. Instead, he stared ahead; eyes focused on the first signs of life they’d come across since leaving Penance.
As they got closer, Farris could make out the smaller details of the barn. It seemed that the horde had come through here too, evidenced by flattened grass and fences surrounding the buildings. The granaries appeared to be untouched: two narrow wooden buildings raised a foot off the ground on short, stone columns. Both of their doors were shut tight. The door to the barn, on the other hand, was slightly ajar. Farris’s breath caught in his throat when he heard the faint sounds of whispering from within.
Plackart gestured them to dismount, which they did in silence. The seven Simians took their weapons off their mounts—polearms and spears and longswords among them—then walked towards the barn. Farris held his halberd in his hands, his fingers wrapped tight about the shaft. Ahead of him, Plackart wore his large greatsword on his back, its hilt rocking to and fro as he walked ahead of the party.
Without a knock, or even hesitation, Plackart pushed through the door.
The barn’s interior consisted mainly of a single room, with a high ceiling and large walls about the perimeter. These walls were barely visible, however, due to the stacks upon stacks of barrels, boxes, and crates piled upon each other. On the far side of the room was a stone hearth, with a meagre fire blazing within. Sitting around this was a small group of Humans, their pale faces turned towards the Simian intruders.
Farris’s throat immediately went dry as he drew closer to the group. At the front, was one elderly man with an ill-fitting chainmail coif around his head and shoulders. Next to him stood a burly middle-aged man who gripped a spear in trembling hands. Behind him was a woman of a similar age, who stood before two young children, as if to shield them against the Simians who had barged into their home.
“I am General-Commander Plackart of the Triad,” boomed the Simian’s voice as he approached. “The army of the Triad has need of the grain and provisions of Point Grey left behind by the horde. If you—”
The middle-aged man spat on the ground. “You think you can come in here and steal from us? After all that’s happened?”
Plackart paused. “If you were to let me finish, we have ships that can take you to Penance in return, where your needs will be looked after.”
The old man stepped forward. “This farm has been in my family for generations. The stars themselves will fall before we hand it over to you rats!”
Farris grimaced. Please. Just listen to us. Please.
“You do not have any choice in the matter,” said Plackart, gesturing to the piles of crates around them. “These supplies are surely too much for a small family and will spoil before you can put them to use. The army of the Triad however could—”
“You can’t take it!” cried the middle-aged man. He moved to stand in front of his family. The spear in his hands was no longer shaking but raised towards Plackart. “Are you really going to kill a family of farmers for some food?”
Please. Let them see reason. Gods, let them see why it’s so important for them to listen.
It took Farris more than a moment to realise he was praying. He was actually praying.
“We’ve fought off worse than you,” said the woman. “We’ve protected this farm from crop blight and drought. Infestations of weevils and mice. Even the undead army came and went, and we stood through it all.”
“Exactly,” said the old man. “And what’s a few armoured rats compared to the mass of the undead?”
Farris closed his eyes. Please, let them see reason. Just let them give us what we need.
Plackart took his greatsword into his hands. Its blade was as longer than the armed man was tall, and thicker than the elderly man was wide.
“We will not ask again,” said Plackart. “In the name of the Triad, I command you give us control of your supplies. We wish to resolve this peacefully.”
But the family stood strong.
Of course. This is their home. This is the fruits of their labour. Why would they listen to us? We are strangers… intruders… no different than the Firstborn four hundred years ago.
He closed his eyes. There must be another way. Another solution. Perhaps we can take just half, or offer to purchase a volume or—
A creak of wood overhead disrupted Farris’s trail of thought. He opened his eyes but dared not look up. Instead, he saw the middle-aged man glance upwards for a moment, then back at Plackart.
Something’s wrong. Farris shifted the grip on his halberd.
Closing his eyes again, he focused on the sound overhead. Somewhere between the beats of his pounding heart, he heard it again. A slight creak, like a foot upon a wooden beam. Then came the faint sound of a sharp intake of breath. Farris bent his knees, ready now for what was to come.
A dark shape fell from the ceiling, plummeting towards Plackart’s head. As soon as it came into view, however, Farris leapt, swinging his halberd towards it. With a sharp yell, the dark shape fell aside, the light of the fire revealing it as a young lad clutching a dagger in two hands. He wore a simple white shirt, stained heavily with blood pouring from his waist.
Farris glanced down at his own weapon; the axe-head covered in the blood of the boy.
“No,” Farris whimpered.
The woman screamed, clutching the two children into her body. Both Humans ran towards Plackart, the younger plunging the spear towards him.
“No!” roared Farris. “We can—”
But the Commander’s greatsword was already in motion. With a deft forward movement, Plackart swung the blade in a large arc, striking both men at once. The two fell, and the woman’s screams were joined by those of the children.
“No!!” Farris cried. He dropped to his knees. The stone hearth was stained with blood. The body of the younger lad still twitched in the light of the fire.
“As I said,” continued Plackart, as if there was no interruption. “You will be compensated and re-housed in Penance in exchange for these provisions. Do I make myself clear?”
The woman barely managed to nod her head, which was enough for Plackart to give the order to the other scouts to send news to Penance they had succeeded.
But Farris’s eyes remained fixed on the body of the young lad as it went still.
Was there anything I could have said? Was there anything I could have done?
But he knew, perhaps he had always known that there was no way for this to end, other than through bloodshed. Part of him had to admit that this was the only way. As Cathbad would have said, it was just something that had to be done.
And when he found himself agreeing with the old Arch-Canon, Farris hated himself even more.