Firebrand

The man being already dead simplified the situation. Martel raised a finger, and a stream of fire erupted to engulf the shambling course, immolating it. His horse whinnied, becoming skittish at the sudden burst of flames, and he ended the spell upon seeing it had done as intended. Whatever malevolent force had reanimated the dead man, it could not withstand the onslaught of even simple spellcraft like a fire ray, and the corpse fell to the ground. Martel reached out and extinguished the lingering flames, just to preserve the body and anything that might lend clues to its identity or how it had come to such a fate.

Following the same line of thinking, Eleanor crouched down next to the smouldering corpse. Once reassured his horse would not bolt, Martel joined her. They stared down at the body of a man, some thirty years of age. He did not appear local; his clothing was leather rather than fabric, meant to withstand long journeys. He seemed typical Asterian rather than the pale skin and occasional blue eyes that characterised the people of Nordmark.

As for what killed him the first time around, no obvious marks lay upon him. He might have died from cold or disease, though it did not explain why he had chosen to rise again and join the ranks of the undead. The most obvious explanation would be something to do with the ruined tower, given the powerful magic that had once been employed by the Archean wizards, and which might still linger. The alternative, that he had been forced into undeath on purpose, suggested a necromancer in the area; neither explanation appealed to Martel, but if undead roamed the area, he preferred the cause to be accidental rather than intentional.

Standing up, Eleanor looked south. “A village. We should inquire among the people to learn what we can,” she suggested.

As Martel rose to his feet as well, he saw spirals of smoke against the horizon, barely visible. “Agreed.” They threw the body to be slumped across their pack animal and made their way toward the signs of settlement.

The village had less than ten buildings at a glance – eight, once Martel had counted them. They all appeared to be simple homes; no village hall for communal celebrations or a root cellar to preserve supplies. One of the structures might hide a shrine within, just like the village where they had celebrated the solstice, but none of the locals gathering outside their homes looked like a priest or priestess. They all appeared entirely ordinary, except for one specimen, a man so aged, his skin seemed like wrinkled parchment stretched to barely fit over his skull. He wore the kind of robes typical of clerks or certain trades, plain and lacking the religious imagery embroidered upon the clothing of clergy.

Despite the appearance of two strangers with a corpse among their possessions, the villagers did not appear hostile or anxious. They kept their distance, but none of them reached for weapons or scowled at the pair.

“We came across this man in the woods,” Eleanor declared, pointing at the body on the horse behind her. “We brought him here for a decent burial and to ask whether he was known to you. We could not determine the cause of his death, but it seemed natural rather than done by blade or arrow.”

“Natural? Fellow looks like he’s been burnt to a crisp!” exclaimed one of the locals. True enough, the hair on his head had burned away, as had some of his clothes. “That was necessary to kill him the second time,” Martel replied. “But we do not know what killed him the first time, nor what caused him to rise from eternal sleep and attack us.” Seeing a few looks exchanged, wondering if he had been too circumspect with the truth, he added, “He turned undead.” Newest update provıded by noᴠelfire.net

Such a proclamation should have caused outbursts of fear or people making Sol’s sign to ward off evil, but the locals took the news in stride. “You do not seem dismayed,” Eleanor remarked.

“It’s happened before, and I dare say, it’ll happen again.” The speaker was the old man, clutching a staff with both hands to support himself. He turned to one of the others. “Asger, you got the biggest house. If the others take a horse inside each, why don’t you offer a roof to our guests for the night, and we can tell them what little we know,” he suggested. He grabbed a small flask from his pocket and downed the contents.

“Not a problem.” Asger barked a few orders at the others; once the pair of wizards had dismounted and taken their belongings from the saddle, the villagers took care of their horses while they followed their host, his family, and the old man indoors.

The house was like any other in Nordmark, built more than a century ago during the first expansion of settlers from Aster. A single room with a bed in one end, straw on the floor, and a fireplace in the middle to provide heat for cooking and general comfort in winter. A primitive chimney tried to lead away the ensuing smoke with lacklustre results, causing the air to be heavy inside.

“Unless it bothers you, I can provide light and heat for us with a few simple enchantments,” Martel suggested tentatively. Given the experiences these people had with magic, such as the formerly animated corpse lying outside, it seemed prudent to ask before displaying any sorcerous powers.

“By all means,” Asger replied. He had taken a seat while his wife was busy digging out bread, cheese, sausage, and what else could be eaten during the cold season, while several young children sat in the bed, staring at the guests.

“You won’t find us hostile to magic, if that was your concern,” the old man explained. He had left his staff at the door and taken a seat on one of the benches built into the wall.

Martel nodded a little hearing the answer and dug out his lightstone. With a few flashes of magic, he extinguished the fire burning in the room and summoned wind to push the smoke out of the chimney. Finally, a swift, rudimentary enchantment imbued one of the stones placed in a circle around the fireplace with heat.

“Marvellous,” the old man said, extending his hands toward the new source of warmth. “Does a lot of good for these ancient bones, I tell you.”

“You don’t seem a farmer or a huntsman,” Martel pointed out, looking at his robe.

“Only because I’m neither.” He gave a smile that showed he possessed all his teeth despite his advanced age. “I am Leander, herbalist and apothecary of some small skill.” He spoke Asterian with a slight accent from elsewhere, which along with his name suggested he was not born in these parts.

“You are being too modest,” Asger claimed. “Old Leander here has a touch of the same skill you do, good master. There’s magic in his remedies, and they never fail.”

Martel looked at the apothecary – or alchemist, rather – with renewed interest. “Did you train at the Lyceum?”

“Nothing so fancy, good master.” Leander gave a faint laughter. “I just picked up a trick here and there, at times meeting others like myself, wandering the less travelled paths and able to teach me a bit.”

Hedge mage, Martel considered, which also explained why he did not appear local. He would not hold that against the old codger; Regnar was a hedge mage too, and honourable enough in his own way. Though it seemed a mystery why Leander had chosen to settle in this hamlet, unremarkable in every regard except for its proximity to the Archean ruins.

“I am Eleanor Fontaine,” his companion introduced herself, always the first to remember her manners, “and this is Martel of Engby.” He nodded to them, and the wife stuck a piece of bread into his hands. “As you surmise, we are both wizards, and we have dealt with undead creatures before.”

She made it sound as if they handled such monsters as a matter of routine, rather than having done so once or twice, but Martel kept quiet about that.

“We have our suspicions of what might have caused that unfortunate traveller to be denied his eternal rest, but as you live in the area, we should like to hear your reasoning first.”

“It’s that damned ruin!” Asger’s wife exclaimed, sitting down next to her husband. “Nothing but ill luck in that place.”

“It’s true.” Asger nodded vigorously. “Every now and then, fortune seekers make their way to that accursed tower. None of them ever return.”

“I’m hardly an expert compared to your esteemed selves,” Leander said, “but I’ve not come across any other explanation. Not that I know what in those ruins causes this.”

Eleanor and Martel looked at each other. “We shall take a look,” she promised. “Tomorrow, once we have rested.”

And when the sun would shine high in the sky, Martel added in his thoughts; not that it counted for much this close to winter solstice.

“Of course. If anyone can undo the evil that lurks in their place, it would be a pair of wizards such as yourselves,” Leander spoke.

“And you’re welcome to sleep in our home,” Asger interjected.

“And if you decide tomorrow morning to ride on straight away, nobody here would blame you,” his wife added, shaking her head. “A shame to see two fine young people go the way of all the others. A crying shame.”

“Let’s not call to ill fate before it happens,” her husband chastised her. “If Leander has faith in their abilities, so should we.”

The woman continued shaking her head. “A damn shame.”