The setting for the role-playing games The Darkest Age and The Darkest Age: Resurrected is ruined medieval Europe, overrun by the undead. Yet other survivors pose a dangerous risk as well. Not to mention the dreadful Horsemen roaming the land, bringing pestilence, plague, and death. Enjoy this piece of short fiction written by The Darkest Age writer, E. Staggs.

#rpg #zombies #ttrpg #fiction

He hadn’t seen the sun since his return…

Gregar Lucienne, ex-crusader of the Pope, walked across what he believed was France, with his sword drawn. He avoided people, to avoid infection. But those he failed to avoid were often, almost invariably corrupted by something more sinister than mere sickness.

He was wrapped in a once fine tabard to keep the wind at bay. Beneath the whipping, blood-stained tabard, he wore dented and dirty steel armor. Greaves, pauldrons, gauntlets. His entire being except for his head, wrapped in a chainmail coif, was encased in tempered and tried steel. Gregar’s face was smeared with ash, soot, and other, less identifiable stains.

He walked in a fugue state, dream-like. He put one foot in front of the other in a seemingly endless march. His head pounded with never-ending hoof beats, endless screams of the dying.

“Men make different sounds when they die,” he muttered to no one.

Minutes, maybe days, pass as Gregar walks.

The moon is high when he sees the castle walls. There is a glow from the single tower’s window. The thought of shelter surges forward in his mind, all-encompassing. He raises his sword high overhead and waves it. He shouts. He pleads. He cries. Shadows pass the windows, so very high up.

A grey streaked dawn then and raining ash. Gregar mutters to himself, to anyone who would hear, claiming he is owed shelter by any lawful followers of the Church.

Then, a woman’s voice from above, “Have you not heard, Sir Knight? The end is nigh. Do as thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.” She laughed and threw a chamber pot from the window.

Gregar was far enough away to avoid the filth. He stopped his muttering and tried to yell. His voice was hoarse as if he had been screaming throughout his dreams.

“Open the gate,” he said without force. “Open the gate,” he said again. “I’m not sick. Open the gate.”

“Perhaps I am!” The woman said, and now she had a bow, arrow nocked. Gregar focused his eyes with great effort and saw the sheaf arrow growing larger in his vision. Old, savage instincts took over and he felt his body move left, felt the kiss of wind on his cheek as the arrow flew by. Glancing upward, the woman was gone. Gregar stood for a quiet moment, his clouded mind struggling to find a way into this fortress. He could hear. He could always hear the hoof beats in the distance. The Horsemen were ever-present, always nearer than the next intolerable second.

The portcullis gate rose up without warning to the tune of creaking, rusted chains. Gregar, sword in hand, rushed toward the opening, only to be met by another arrow. This one sparked off his longsword and cracked, the broken shaft flicking harmlessly from his armored torso.

The woman was arrow-swift herself and banshee loud. With a piercing scream, she was in Gregar’s face, a sword drawn, then weaving around in the air, threatening to cut Gregar. Her hair was chopped short and uneven, probably because of lice. It was yellow, red, and black. Her eyes were black-brown and red-rimmed. They glistened and flicked back and forth, leaking madness into the air.

Gregar barely parried her second blow, a wild but powerful swing intended to remove his head. “I need my arrow back,” she howled.

Gregar had seen madness before; he’d supped on desperation and drank heavily of despair. These old friends were again dancing on the edges of his vision. The woman also wore armor, clearly crafted for her, or at least someone her size. It was a chain and leather combination, protecting her from toes to fingertips. Recognizing the madness in the woman’s eyes, Gregar closed his mouth, vaguely wondering what he had been trying to say, what dreadful fact he’d been trying to convince her of. Instead of conversation, he indulged her desire for a fight. Gregar had killed nineteen men this year alone. A lone madwoman, who stood between him and the safety of stone shelter, would not give him pause. He swung downward, using the sword’s weight to add force to the attack. Devil fast, she raised her sword and parried. The clanging of the weapons was loud, and they both winced. Loud noises drew the attention of – foul things.

His strength drove the parrying sword down and pushed it away, stealing the woman’s balance. He lunged and spun; his sword became an arc of steel. Amateur footwork led her into the arc, neck first. There was an arterial spray, and she collapsed.

Gregar looked at her fallen body for a moment, then turned around and wondered where her arrow had gone. If her bow was inside, the arrow also had value to him. He laughed, a laugh too close to hysteria for his liking, and decided to enter the castle walls. He closed the portcullis behind him and set about exploring his newly won prize.

Later, Gregar sat in the window alone and sipped cheap brandy. He’d found food, drink, and peace of mind behind those high walls. He scanned the outside of the walls for the corpse of the woman. He saw a great black spot on the ground where she had bled out, but her remains, it seems, had gotten up and walked away.

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