Chapter Forty-Four: Rediscovering Hope

"They’re back, Father! Uncle Lucas and the others have returned!" Avery, who was keeping watch, called down to the people below.

Bardr breathed a sigh of relief. Night had fallen, and he was just about to order everyone to turn back toward the mountain path. Thankfully, Lucas and Ved returned before they had to retrace their steps.

The two men descended the slope to rejoin the villagers.

"Sir Ved, you should rest for a while," Lucas said. "I’ll explain the situation in detail. We’ll camp here tonight and set out on a new route tomorrow."

Ved nodded and withdrew to one side, retrieving his deerskin bundle.

He found a clean cloth and fetched some water from the large pot nearby, determined to scrub himself clean—the stench clinging to him was unbearable. He couldn’t smell it himself, but the look on the old woman ladling water spoke volumes; the odor of decay lingered like a curse.

While Ved cleaned his gear, many villagers gathered around Lucas, desperate to hear what had happened in Brontë Village.

"Lucas, how is it?" Bardr asked.

"It’s very bad," Lucas replied.

A heavy silence fell over the group.

"In any case, let’s prepare to camp. We’ll spend the night here," Lucas said.

"Avery, take some people and set up the tents," Bardr ordered. "Get the fire going."

"Yes, Father!" Avery called, leading several people toward the ox-carts to fetch the tarpaulins.

The young men grabbed axes, chopping dead wood for the campfire.

"What exactly happened?" Bardr pressed.

"It was a necromancer," Lucas said gravely.

"A necromancer..."

Several timid women blanched at the word. A few children, hearing the name, burst into tears, terrified beyond words.

For children, the title of necromancer was even more terrifying than that of Viking raider. Adults often used tales of necromancers to frighten them: If you’re not home before dark, the necromancer will catch you, turn you into a skeleton or a zombie, and you’ll never see your parents again.

"Was it really a necromancer?" Even the older Bardr sounded shocked and doubtful. "Could there have been a mistake?"

He had already caught the stench of corpses on Ved and Lucas, but he still clung to hope that it was only bandits or some other menace that had invaded Brontë Village. To ordinary people, a necromancer was the stuff of nightmares. Against Vikings wielding swords, at least one could fight back; but faced with the uncanny power of a necromancer, Bardr found his courage failing.

"There’s no mistake," Lucas replied. "Sir Ved and I saw many corpses in the village. No one’s left alive in Brontë. We encountered packs of rotting undead hounds, and even came face to face with a stitched abomination, built from the carcass of a monstrous beast."

Lucas described to the villagers all that he and Ved had found in the village. He dwelled especially on the abomination, more so than the hounds.

"You would never want to meet that monster. It was as large as a stone house, with three wolf heads, and its limbs weren’t wolf paws, but hooves like a sheep’s. When it moved, the ground itself seemed to tremble."

"It was monstrously strong—one kick could bring down a stone wall. From the seams in its flesh oozed a yellowish fluid, fouler than anything I’ve ever smelled. I was nearly overcome by the stench."

"So you—when you saw the monster, you just ran away?" a woman asked. "Oh heavens, how can we camp here tonight? What if it comes after us? We’ll all die, every last one!"

A mountain of dread pressed down upon them. Her outburst set off a wave of panic; both young and old began to despair.

The monster Lucas described was terrifying beyond words. The villagers had already fled their homes, their homeland burned by Viking raiders. They had trudged for ten weary days through snow, only to encounter winter wolves.

Their strength and spirit were at their breaking point. The hope that sustained them—"Cross the Clavey Pass, reach Brontë Village, and we’ll be safe"—had brought them this far.

Just as they relaxed at the sight of those stone houses, they now heard that they had stumbled into a new abyss.

Despair, unease, terror, anxiety...

All the darkness they’d been suppressing threatened to erupt like a volcano.

If that happened, the group would lose all will to go on. People without hope are no more than walking corpses; they’d never make it through the forest streams to Alvador. Many would give up before the journey’s end.

Lucas understood this. That was why he chose this moment to let their emotions explode.

He had to give the villagers a new pillar to lean on, so he made sure to paint the horror of the stitched beast in the darkest colors.

He said, "Of course we can camp here tonight. And if you want to know why, it’s because that dreadful necromancer’s abomination was slain by the valiant Sir Ved!"

"This noble traveler from afar vanquished the monster without a scratch, and the undead hounds in the village fell to his sword as well."

"I’m almost ashamed to say it—I never even had the chance to draw my weapon. Sir Ved handled the creatures on his own."

Every eye turned toward Ved, who was still polishing his helmet.

Ved paid no mind and continued with his work. He knew what Lucas intended; they had discussed it on the way back.

If Ved were truly a lone adventurer, concerned only with his own safety, it would have been wiser to refuse to travel with this burdened group. The more people, the bigger the target. Necromancers were hunted by all; if one had surfaced near Brontë, he would seek to keep word from spreading. That meant killing anyone he found.

Once the villagers’ group was noticed, the necromancer would attack without hesitation.

A lone traveler was less likely to be discovered—safer.

But if Ved left, the group’s chances would fall to zero; they’d have no hope of reaching their destination.

Choosing between his own safety and the lives of many—such a choice was never easy.

But Ved was no adventurer; he was a skeleton, and this was only his avatar. He chose to walk with the villagers. After all, he had accepted their request: to see them safely to the nearest city with a magistrate, Alvador.

It was his first task, and he hoped to see it through.

So, when the Tanians looked at him with hope, he knew his role—to remain calm and distant, to preserve his air of mystery.

He displayed his sword, honing the blade with a whetstone. The steady rasp of metal matched the thumping of the villagers’ hearts.

Gradually, the villagers quieted. There was no laughter, but people returned to their tasks, helping to chop wood, pitch tents, set traps.

They prepared meat stew, obeyed Lucas’s advice to abandon excess baggage, and slaughtered their cattle and sheep for provisions.

Ved took no part in these labors, but his mere presence inspired hope and renewed determination.

It had always been so, since ancient times—a group needs someone to lead them forward.