Chapter Forty: The Decayed Corpse

The villagers were perplexed. The settlement lay just ahead, yet Wade blocked their path.

Lucas was the first to sense something amiss. As they climbed the mountain road, he had stepped down from the ox cart. His wounds had improved; he could walk normally again. He approached Wade and asked, “Sir Wade, is there a problem?”

Wade pointed toward the rooftops. Lucas squinted, stood on tiptoe, and looked carefully for a while. His expression suddenly grew solemn.

Avery asked nervously, “Uncle Lucas, what’s up ahead?”

Lucas replied, “Carrion crows.”

“Carrion crows?”

Avery was puzzled—what was so unusual about carrion crows?

Lucas explained, “There’s a large flock of carrion crows on those houses. You only see so many wild carrion crows in places like battlefields or graveyards. They’re drawn here by the scent of decay.”

Lucas’s sense of danger was acute; otherwise, he would not have survived seventeen years as an adventurer with all his limbs intact.

“Look elsewhere—do you see anyone moving about?” he said.

Several agile young men climbed nearby oak trees. When they came down, each shook their head, saying they saw no sign of people.

“But… but it’s winter,” a woman protested. “Who would be out wandering in such cold? They must be inside, sitting by a warm fire.”

She still imagined that a knock on a wooden door would bring friendly villagers eager to share bread and goat’s milk.

“If there were people in the village, there wouldn’t be so many carrion crows,” Lucas said gravely.

“Lucas, what should we do? You make the decision,” said Avery’s father, Uncle Baldur. “You’re the most experienced among us. We’ll follow your lead.”

Lucas nodded and climbed atop the nearest ox cart.

He scanned the entire Bronte village, searching for useful information.

Though merely of Iron rank, as a professional, his eyesight was much keener than most.

Looking toward where the crows gathered, he saw bodies partially buried in snow, carrion crows swooping down to peck at rotting flesh.

Something unknown had befallen Bronte village. Had Vikings invaded here as well?

Impossible, Lucas thought, furrowing his brow.

It was deep winter. The sea was frozen; Viking war bands could not maneuver their longships across the sea. At most, like the group that had attacked their own village, a pirate band could use sleds to transport a few dozen men across snowfields and frozen rivers, raiding remote places. But how could they reach Bronte, so far from the coast?

Lucas sensed a strange, dangerous aura.

“Uncle Baldur, have the young men drive the oxen and sheep down the slope behind us,” Lucas said in a low voice. “Everyone go down the slope—don’t come out.”

“All right!” Baldur waved his hand. “Everyone, follow me!”

The group of over a hundred retreated, uneasy, to shelter beneath the hillside.

Lucas picked up his beloved rifle. His wounds had not fully healed—the arrow wound on his back had scabbed over, but his broken ribs would need two or three months to mend, and his damaged organs, even longer.

His breathing still felt obstructed, though not as before, when every breath tasted of rust.

So long as he avoided violent exertion and did not use combat techniques, he should be able to move without much issue.

“Sir Wade, could I trouble you to accompany me into Bronte village?” Lucas asked. “If there are unforeseen circumstances, we’ll increase your reward according to the severity.”

Wade nodded, drew his iron sword from his belt, and stood beside Lucas.

Lucas exhaled. Having a reliable companion when undertaking a mission was reassuring.

He had learned of Wade’s background—a wandering knight from Netherland who had ventured into Tania must have considerable skills.

In this perilous world, anyone who dared travel alone was proof of both courage and strength.

“I’ll go with you as well,” said Uncle Baldur.

Lucas shook his head. “Uncle Baldur, you need to stay. Otherwise, no one will be left to lead here.”

“Then find a few brave lads to give you a hand,” Baldur suggested.

Lucas still shook his head. “Sometimes, the courage of young men isn’t truly courage.”

It might be recklessness and ignorance.

He left the last words unsaid, but Baldur understood his meaning.

Taking inexperienced youths to somewhere as dangerous as a battlefield would most likely only make them a liability.

“I understand,” Baldur nodded. “Go on, then. We’ll wait here for your return.”

Lucas said, “Keep the group as quiet as possible—especially the oxen and sheep. Don’t let them panic.”

“If we haven’t returned by nightfall, keep retreating, go back to the start of the mountain road.”

“Understood.” Baldur patted Lucas’s shoulder.

The two exchanged a glance. Then Lucas turned, and together with Wade, walked toward the stone village at the base of the mountain.

“I’ll lead the way, Sir Wade,” Lucas whispered. “We’ll sneak in from the side path.”

Wade nodded, following behind.

Where no one could see, a wisp of white mist drifted from the cracks of Wade’s black iron helmet.

Frost-white Mia took shape behind Wade, then soared upward.

The little ghost flew much faster than Wade and Lucas. As the two circled into the village from the side, Mia had already reached the air above Bronte.

Though Wade and Mia did not share their vision and could not clearly see what Mia saw, he could glean from the little ghost’s thoughts whether anything lurked within the village.

Something undetectable by Wade was moving in the shadows of the settlement.

He gripped his sword, directing Mia to watch their path ahead—those blind spots blocked by shrubs and stone houses.

The pair stooped low, safely passing through thickets and snow, arriving outside the front door of a stone house.

A pungent stench of rot assaulted their noses. Lucas’s stomach churned; he barely suppressed his nausea.

He halted, crouched, and scraped away the not-too-deep snow.

A frozen male corpse lay exposed, most of its limbs chewed and gnawed as if by some beast.

“Was it wild animals?” Lucas frowned.

They pressed onward, entering a narrow lane flanked by stone walls.

Before leaving the alley, Wade stretched out a hand to stop Lucas.

Mia had seen something ahead.

Wade heard faint gnawing sounds and pressed close to the wall, advancing silently.

Lucas followed suit. The two quietly peered out.

Lucas’s pupils contracted sharply. Before them lay a rotting wild dog—its intestines hung to the ground, pale ribs protruded from decaying flesh, yet the creature still moved, lowering its head to chew the corpse of a carrion crow it had killed.