Death After Death Ch. 135-136

Ch. 135 - Slow Progress

Simon deliberated on it for a day before he decided on public executions. Courtiers and Varten’s widow spent that day arguing that he should torture one or more of them to get to the truth so fervently that he was fairly sure that they were in on it, but he ignored them. 

Not only did he have no plans to ever torture someone whose name wasn’t Varten Raithewait, but in this case, he was fairly certain that even those who weren’t directly responsible for what had happened deserved to die. He wasn’t a fan of killing innocent people, but none of the nobles he’d rounded up and named as dangerous co-conspirators had been innocent for decades. 

He gave the condemned men a week to beg for their lives and throw each other under the bus while the gallows were built, but it was done; the sobbing men were still led out and hung in the town square where everyone could see. After the five of them stopped jerking and twitching, Simon stepped out onto the platform and made a speech. 

“I didn’t ask to be put in charge of this town or this region,” he told them. “My wife… she died not so far from here, and though I won’t go into the details of that tragic day, I will say that it could have been prevented if powerful men had done the right thing.”

He continued as quiet onlookers listened without interruption. He explained that he hoped to leave in a year or two and that all he wanted to do was leave Crowvar better than he’d found it. There were no cheers when Simon left and walked back to the central keep, but then he didn’t expect any at such a solemn occasion. There were no boos or threats either, and that was enough for now. 

Simon kept a low profile over the next few days, waiting to see if he’d made a mistake, but things got back to normal shockingly quickly. It was only when he was sure riots weren’t going to break out over what he’d done that he met with the remaining three dozen members of his impromptu mercenary and gave them all a different sort of speech. 

For the last year, all he’d done was fight and then move to a new location to fight again, but today, he was giving them a different sort of message. “It’s time to dig in or move on,” he told them. 

Some had obviously been expecting that message, but others were surprised by it and had hoped he’d return to fighting on the plains once Jak had recovered fully from being poisoned. Simon told those who wanted to leave and fight on their own that they were welcome to do so and that those who wanted to settle down and build something would be gifted acreage at his expense so they could start a farm or something similar. 

Truthfully, much of the land he wanted to hand out had been seized from the men he’d just executed, but that wasn’t important. There was plenty of Raithewait land thatcurrently laid fallow that anyone with a strong back might put to good use. 

Less than half of the men that were still here took him up on that offer, but that was still more than zero, and he was sure that nearly two dozen proven warriors would have a better impact on Crowvar’s future than five dead leeches. It wasn’t enough to make him stop sleeping behind a locked door every night, though, or eating at random inns throughout the town each day. Simon was sure that he hadn’t gotten all the men and women who wanted him dead yet, and while he worked on his priorities, he did his best to make their job as difficult as possible. 

He worked with the captain of the guard to cut the size of the town watch by almost half since it took up most of the able-bodied men, then he pledged large portions of the town’s scant remaining wealth to projects that would fix the outer wall, tear down the burn-scarred buildings that remained, and start to fix the main trade road. 

Simon was no expert in these things, but as long as the place looked like a shithole, he figured people were going to treat it that way. If, on the other hand, it looked like somewhere you would want to raise a family, then maybe there would be more families. It was simple logic, but he was going to go with it. Not that he was going to stick around to see the consequences in this life; of course, he’d get things back on track, and then he’d move on. Somehow, that never quite happened, though. 

Each time things started to look good, and he packed up his things so that he could head further north, something came up. At first, it was a dispute over the exact height of the southern wall. Then, there was a difference of opinion over whether or not the road to the main trade road should go on the same path it always had or if they should build a new section that took a shorter, more direct path. 

Simon didn’t really see why the men doing the work couldn’t decide these things and why they needed the Baron’s own Regent to resolve these issues. The Baron couldn’t do it, of course. He was just a ten-year-old boy who was being taught to hate Simon now that he could speak, but Simon ignored that as he focused on things like planning the expansion of irrigation ditches and settling petty disputes. 

Despite all that, though, after three months of adoration from the commoners and mute hatred from the powers that be, he was once again getting ready to leave when there was word of an orc attack at a village not so far away. 

Despite the fact that Simon’s stubble had as much gray as brown in it now, and he had more than his fair share of wrinkles around his eyes, he didn’t hesitate for a second and immediately rounded up two dozen men and set out to stop the war band before it could become something worse. 

Despite the chilly weather, it felt good to get back out of the walls. Here, he didn’t have to look over his shoulder for assassins. Hell, he didn’t even have to watch what he said. Half the time, he had to crack a dirty joke or two just to keep people from treating him like he was a hero that they needed to put on a pedestal in a museum or a temple. 

By the time they reached Krovel, it was a complete loss, as Simon had thought it would be. Only the small tower of the minor lord that was charged with defending this group of villages still stood. He and his family were fine, of course, but when it was revealed that the only survivors who hadn’t fled were members of the noble’s household and that he hadn’t tried to let in the other villagers, Simon’s only response to the man’s explanations was to have him hanged for failing to do his duty. 

Part of Simon wanted to see the man flogged first, but he thought that was a bit much, especially after his wife and children begged Simon to spare them. That hurt more than he thought it would, and it made him wonder when he’d become so heartless, but it wasn’t enough to make him relent in his judgment. 

“The tower is there to fight against the things that attack unexpectedly,” he lectured to everyone who was still standing, from the man’s family to his own soldiers. “Not to save your skin when things go wrong! The same punishment that I apply to deserters and cowards will be applied to any man that supposed to be better than the men I lead into the field.”

There were some cheers at that, but there were some sobs too, and long after Simon had sent the women and children back to Crowvar with an armed escort and they had moved north to follow the orc tracks, second thoughts haunted him. 

Am I treating people like NPCs because I’ve been doing this too long? He wondered. It was one of his more frequent fears now that he no longer spent most nights missing Freya. He worried that replaying the same events might lead to him losing touch with the world. After all, power corrupted, and these days, Simon had a lot of it. Hadn’t the nobles he was punishing done exactly that? Hadn’t they lost touch with the world in their own way?

Fortunately for Simon, a group of orcish scouts was happy to help him regain touch with the world again the following morning, and though he took a blow to his shield that was nasty enough to cave part of it in, his blade drank green blood again for the first time in a long time. The battle was short and decisive. By the end of it, there were three dead orcs, and one of his younger men had a broken arm that Simon was fairly sure was going to heal cleanly. 

That evening, they found a second scouting party that was dealt with even more cleanly by peppering them with a hail of crossbow bolts. Everyone lay uncomfortably in their armor, and no one slept well that night as they waited for the final battle to come. That was wise, given that scouts shouted the alarm just before dawn. 

The opposing force was larger than Simon expected but smaller than he feared, with ten orcs. In the past, he preferred a three-to-one advantage or horsemen to deal with groups as large as ten, but this time, he had neither, which was stupid. With all his public works projects going on, horses were in short supply. That would need to be rectified, he decided. Unfortunately, he could only do that after he lived through this. 

For the first time in months, Simon considered using a word of power. He resisted, of course, at least until he realized that one of them was a shaman of sorts and called the lightning to deal with them. That was a shock to Simon, figuratively speaking. The magic arced from the clear sky and hit the two men closest to the orcs before he could speak the words of lightning protection and stop the purplish arcs from hitting anyone else. 

That single strike almost broke the morale of his men. Orcs were scary enough, but orcs with magic? That was another thing entirely. The nascent charge died, even as it had been in the process of being born. Instead, the soldiers around him formed a defensive line and looked to him for some idea of what to do next. Simon gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going to let some orc kill him or anyone else, not with lighting or fists or anything else.

Ch. 136 - Striking Twice

When the orcs saw their opponents delay, they roared with bloodlust and charged instead. That was the way they were; they smelled weakness and fear the way that a shark might smell blood, and after what had just happened, there was definitely blood in the water. 

Simon was less concerned about the line of green eight-foot-tall warriors than he was about the talisman-bedecked warlock who was grinning behind them. Still, he waited, just for the right moment, and as soon as the monster raised its hand skyward and opened its mouth to channel the lightning again, he acted. 

“Gervuul Vrazig,” he muttered. Greater lighting. He hated the idea of using a greater word in a life where he planned on sticking around for a while, but he needed what came next to be more than a little showy, and the other way to do that was with more power. 

The lightning came down for the orc almost instantly. He didn’t fling it at his enemies, though. Instead, he stood there convulsing with his hand held skyward as the energy radiated through his body and the warlock’s clothing burst into flames.

None of that dissipated the energy enough to stop it from arcing outward through most of the rest of the group, though. Purple lightning sprayed in a wide arc that bounced and rebounded several times before coming to ground. It was enough of a fireworks show that half of the group was reduced almost instantly into twitching meat, and the other half paused to look around in confusion. It probably would have been enough to reach more of Simon’s own men and turn their swords into lightning rods if the lingering effects of his protection spell hadn’t dissuaded it. 

Still, this was what he wanted, and he ordered his men to charge and reclaim the momentum. No one disobeyed, and they moved forward as an armored wave while he paused to catch his breath. A greater word took more out of him than it used to. Does that put me in my forties or my fifties? He wondered. I can’t be that old yet, can I?

It didn’t matter. By the time he reached the fight, most of the fighting was done. One man was maimed, and Simon doubted he’d be able to save the arm, but everyone else was fine, and the green blood of the enemy soaked the ground. If there weren’t two men already dead from the dark magic the shaman unleashed, he would have called it an ideal scenario. As it was, though, the loss of three warriors was just enough to dampen his mood. 

“In the name of the pits below, what was that?” one man said once the fighting was done. 

“It was witchcraft, is what it was, but where would a monster like that learn such a thing? It had no soul to trade to the devils for their power!” another answered. 

Simon said nothing. He just listened and largely agreed with what he was hearing. The truth was, it was an excellent question, and he didn’t have a good answer for it. Where would a goblin learn a word of power? Where would an orc? Was someone teaching them these things? Did the word just happen to be similar to another word in their language? Did they even have a language?

That gave him pause. He could understand every language in the world, couldn’t he? Had he ever heard them make a noise that he’d understood, or—

“What do you think, boss,” one of the soldiers asked, snapping Simon out of his reverie. “I mean, sir.”

Simon shook his head to clear the cobwebs and focus. “I think that whatever dark powers that thing bargained for were too much for it, and just like all evil things, when it tried to wield them against us, it only succeeded in destroying itself and everyone around it.”

Everyone nodded at that as if they were wise words, but really, Simon was only repeating what he’d heard old men say when they were in their cups. Magic was entirely controllable with a focused mind, but that wasn’t something he could ever explain to anyone else. 

So he didn’t. He just babbled on about how they all needed to be wary of the darkness and that the orcs were likely in league with the devils below, even if he had no idea how that would even happen. After all, there was no way that they could summon a devil, could they? It was a complicated undertaking. 

The longer Simon talked, the more questions built up in his mind, though, and finally, he decided they had to keep going after they’d buried the bodies. “What about Miken,” Jak asked. “He ain’t going to be doin’ much fighten with his arm like that.”

“We’ll drop him off at the next village we come across,” Simon promised. Until then, the man could ride one of the supply donkeys. 

There were no more villages, though. Not this far out. They ended up amputating the arm above the elbow the following day, and Simon used a word of minor healing to make sure that much would heal clean, at least. With infinite power, he might have been able to mend the hopelessly mangled arm, but he could feel himself slowly running down, and no matter how great the temptation was to borrow a cup of life force from his neighbor, he had no wish to walk down that road again right now. 

Despite the misgivings of his men, they trudged on up into the bleak foothills where orcs usually came from. Several times, they saw one or two out hunting, but those were dispatched easily enough with a cloud of crossbow bolts. With this many men, Orcs were only dangerous in crowds or when they took you by surprise. 

This far off the beaten path, both things were possible. Hell, they were probable. So, they took their time as the slopes steepened, and boulders that might hide the enemy became more common on the rocky ground. 

Still, they never found the large villages of greenskins that Simon feared they would. Instead, they eventually came across some half-collapsed ruins that looked less Greco-Roman and more Mesopotamian, with monolithic architecture and bas reliefs that had been all but obliterated by the sands of time.  

He spent some time studying the place but couldn’t decide if it was a tomb or a temple. Simon found what might have been the remains of a summoning circle on the floor in one of the still-standing buildings, but he had no idea if the symbols that had been used were real or nonsense because they were smudged so badly. 

It was only in a deeper room, past the rotting corpses of humans that had obviously been used in some sort of sacrificial ritual, that he found true words of power written in blood. They weren’t written by human hands, though. Instead, they were daubed on the walls with wide orcish fingers. Simon often had trouble telling what language something was written in when he read it, but in this case, he was immediately certain that this was nothing he’d seen before. It certainly wasn’t human. 

More than anything, in that moment, Simon wanted to pull out his mirror and scan this into it for further study later. He’d found something. He didn’t know what it was, but it felt like a loose thread just waiting to be pulled. 

The men holding torches with him would think very dimly of such a plan, though. So, instead, he read through the words quickly while he pretended to wrinkle his nose in disgust. 

“What is this filth?” Simon asked no one in particular. 

He knew what it was, though. He just didn’t know why it was. ‘RUIN FLOWS across the land, no matter what she says, that’s the PLAN.’

He ordered his men to obliterate it from existence with their torches, but not before he committed the words of power hidden within the graffiti to memory. However, it took him a moment to understand some of the more important aspects of them.

The first was that Ruin was the word for lightning. It was still spelled Vrazig, but somehow, in this language and with these letters, he read it differently. The second was that for so long, he’d thought that he didn’t know the word for water, but he’d had it the whole time. He thought that initially, he’d learned a new word for water, but it wasn’t. It was just Zyvon, the problematic word for transfer, that occasionally haunted his dreams. 

Only the word Celdura was new, and its meaning was harder to tease out. The way it was used meant plan, quite literally, but as they walked out of the cursed room, he considered what it might be used for. Was it used to dictate what was going to happen next, like it had something to do with fate? Maybe it referred to plans like schematics, and it had something to do with magic, magical items, and summoning circles.

He wasn’t sure, though. In the end, all he could say was that he felt like it was somehow the opposite of ruin, which very clearly meant decay now in addition to lightning in his mind. It was hard to say quite how that association had happened, but it was there now. Did that make Celdura order as well? That didn’t sound right to him, but it was hard to say exactly why. More experimentation would be required. 

Regardless of who wrote that message or who it was meant for, eventually, he was forced to set these matters aside. No matter how much he wanted to explore them, obsessing over foul runes with a bunch of illiterate mercenaries would get him strange looks at the very least, and they might well get him gutted. 

Going this far into the hinterlands with such a small group had not been popular. So, even though he knew this was far from resolved, he declared victory and told the men they were going home. 

“There’s no doubt in my mind that those foul words and sacrifices were the source of the greenskin’s power,” he declared, acting like he meant it. They were probably related, but he doubted the orcs could read any more than his men could. “But now those are gone, and the kingdom is once again safe.”

There were a few scattered cheers at that, but even those who stayed quiet were glad to be going back. Being out here without reinforcements was a great way to get taken by surprise and surrounded. While Simon would gladly unleash hell to save his men, they didn’t know that. So, their respect and obedience only went so far. 

Still, the way home was less eventful than the way there. Miken survived, but they only found a single orc hunter on the way back to more civilized lands, where they found only hospitality once they started to tell stories about black magic and the struggles against the orc menace. 

Simon was happy to let this particular legend grow as large as they wanted it to. He spent his time pondering the strange words they’d found on the wall all the way back to Crowvar.