The Aftermath
Dappled sunlight glittered upon the ground of Northern Chetwood, accompanied by the smell of wild garlic that signified the renewal of spring. The sound of birds singing above cut through the silence, soothing the senses. To behold, the Chetwood in this moment would appear beautiful, picturesque in fact; were it not for the corpses that lay strewn across the road ahead. Durlston Peveril stood, resting upon a nearby tree as he examined the scene. His face remained unchanged, for he had witnessed a great deal in his fifty-three years. Above all emotions one would feel when chance encountering upon such a scene, he felt tired. Tired and exhausted. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried to preserve the wilds and keep the peace, evil and violence always managed to seep its way through.
He stepped out onto the road, staring down at the nearest corpse whose face lay flat against the ground. Carefully, he pushed it onto its back with his foot. Based on the clothing and general rough-hewn appearance, he came to conclusion that the man at his feet was a brigand in life. Upon closer observation, he noticed the unmistakable look of horror upon the victim’s face. Twisted and contorted, his gaunt features making him look even more terrifying in death. “What happened to you…” he spoke aloud, leaving the corpse behind as he strode forwards to the next. This one appeared as though she was trying to flee the scene, making it halfway up the road into the bushes. Durlston seized the back of the corpses garments and pulled the dead woman onto her back. The same look of horror was etched upon her face. Unmistakable.
“Help!” cried a voice up ahead. “Please! Help me!” Senses roused, Durlston reached for the sword hilt upon his back and glanced ahead to where the voice came from. Although eager to find the source of the voice, he approached with caution into the nearby ruins.
“Who goes there?” he spoke in a gruff, flat tone. As he entered the ruins, he drew his sword. The sunlight from the trees glittering upon the blade as he held it loosely at his side. Ahead he saw something shift behind the remains of a wall. “Show yourself!” At this a dark-haired man emerged. His cloth was poor and held an iron mace in his hand. He stumbled forward, crawling almost as he moved swiftly towards Durlston, who raised his blade and pointed it directly at him. “You can drop that weapon; you will not need it.” Reluctantly, the survivor obliged.
“T-Thank you! Thank you, thank you! I thought it would get me, I thought…” The survivor eyed the corpses that lay scattered about the ruins and let out a small shriek of panic.
“Speak sense.” Durlston said, coolly. “Thought what would get you? What did this?” At this the man flung himself to the ground, sobbing. He reached out and grasped the hem of Durlston’s waxed cloak and pulled upon it.
“A shadow! I moved like a serpent, through the forest it did! It coiled around my friends, squeezed them! Murdered them! It was some sort of…” he paused, adding in a hushed voice “witchcraft!”. Durlston took a moment for this information to sink in. He glanced around to see more brigand corpses, all of which mirrored the faces that he had seen upon the road. Whatever had done this was surely a formidable opponent. But sorcery?
“When did this happen?” asked Durlston.
“At night, the dead of night! It came out of nowhere and took them all!” he shouted in a frenzy. “We were powerless to stop it, it was like a shadow! Moved like-”
“A serpent. Yes”, interrupted Durlston who sheathed his weapon. “Do you have tools?”
“Tools?” asked the brigand.
“Yes, tools. A shovel, a pickaxe. Tools.” said Durlston flatly.
“We have… We have some kept in store back in the ruins. But… the dead.”
“Will not harm you. But you will help bury them, for whatever they were in life they will not remain scattered across the Chetwood as food for wolves. Go, now. Fetch the tools and we shall begin.” Durlston pulled his cloak from the brigand’s gasp and moved further into the ruins. In all his years he had never encountered the unnatural. He had heard stories, many of them. Ghost stories told in the corner of taverns and rumours with no evidence to support them. Yet, none of these corpses bore any wounds to account for their passing. Whatever the case, they must not tarry here for long.
“Here!” said the brigand, returning with two spades and dropping them at Durlston’s feet.
“Good. You gather the bodies, and I shall dig. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we leave this place.” The brigand nodded, rushing off towards the nearest corpse and nervously pulling it from the legs to the centre of the ruin. Durlston bent down and took one of the shovels. As he began to dig, he paused for a moment and turned his gaze skyward. Despite all the horror that surrounded them, the Chetwood remained peaceful, tranquil. The sun still shone, and the birds continued to sing their dawn chorus. A perfect balance between peace and chaos.
