The Hunted
Jan 23, 2017 11:58:20 GMT
Post by Jassard Tesarik on Jan 23, 2017 11:58:20 GMT
He found the first corpse exactly where the scouts at the tower had said he would. It was a man, sitting with his back against a lone tree, looking almost peaceful except for the vicious tears in the boiled leather armor he wore and the pool of dried blood he sat on. A broken sword lay at his side, and the ground all around was tossed and ruined, torn up by no doubt by the feet of a few of his assailants moving back and forth on the attack.
Jassard examined the body only momentarily, but saw enough to know something was off. A set of rough tracks approached the tree, and while the imprints on the dead man's boots were barely distinguishable there were several sets of tracks made by either a creature that walked on two feet or four, or possibly switched between both. The sword had shattered into several pieces, an unusual way for a blade to break, and though the wounds that likely killed the man appeared to have been made by sort of pole weapon he was sliced irregularly all across his body, as if clawed and gouged by beasts.
Normally Jassard would have buried the man, or at least taken the time to burn him, but at the moment he had need of haste. He offered a quick prayer to the Old Gods and then remounted and continued off towards the north, following the tracks, where the last report had said the rest of the massacre had happened.
***
He saw the Jendarmerie well before they noticed him. They were two, one mounted like a lookout or guard, and the other picking his way slowly between the wreck of the caravan. As soon as the stench drifted downwind Jassard's horse stiffened, then, slipped into a quick trot, eager to meet up with familiar scents. The mounted rider, who appeared to be scanning the horizon to the northeast turned at the sound and lifted his lance in greeting. Jassard waved in response and made his way next to the rider. No sooner had he approached the smell of the massacre hit him full blast, and he gagged under his mask.
A tassel on his helmet and small insignia on his armor above his heart indicated his rank as a tziedez of the Jendarmerie. He scowled at the sight of the mask that marked Jassard for one of the Duke's Hounds and gave only a slight grunt in response before speaking.
"They send the Faceless to look into brigandry now?" He let the question linger for a moment before continuing. "I did not know things were so secure on the southern watch." The soldier spoke with a certainty that belied the fear in his voice. He had clearly seen just as much as Jassard had, and was able to piece two and two together just as well. But unlike Jassard, he did not want to believe.
"You know as well as I do no brigands did this," Jassard muttered in reply. "And anyway the Hounds have always been sent when the Duke's Peace is broken, but maybe you didn't always see them."
The rider had paled at Jassard's first statement, and now he looked away and refused to engage with his fear. For several minutes they sat in silence, watching the dismounted soldier picking through the mess and listening to the howl of the wind and the buzzing of the corpse flies. After a bit Jassard dismounted and made his way over to the other man, who looked up only for a moment at his approach.
Jassard said nothing at first, only examined the remains of the caravan. Something about the whole scene was off, aside from the particularly brutal nature of the killing, which was a problem Jassard had already solved. The caravan was a fairly large one, nine wagons, each with two or three hands. Besides the mules for the wagons there had been a dozen horses, ridden no doubt by the guards, and finally a small carriage in the back, too small to be used to transport people. Around twenty caravan hands then, plus a dozen guards and a few merchants. At least that his estimate based on the number of easily identifiable corpses fallen in a rough semi-circle.
It wasn't terribly hard to put together a picture of how the battle had went, and Jassard played it all out in his mind. They had been surprised, but not so much so they hadn't the time to get into a defensive position. Four wagons had been pulled together to form a semi-circular wall, with a few guards in the wagons themselves, then the merchants in the center and the guards, caravan hands, and muleteers in a ring from wagon edge to wagon edge. From the start it was a strange formation, not because a wagon circle wasn't the best defense against raiders, but because of the disregard shown for protection against missiles. That meant either the guards were rank amateurs or they had realized the attackers had no archers or javelins. The former was simply unlikely for a caravan trading in this day and age, the latter was against every common bit of wisdom there was when it came to plundering for a living.
As before, there was a very simple conclusion, but even as he knew it to be true he was hesitant to speak the words out loud. He glanced back at the rider, who was back to scanning the horizon, refusing to let his gaze linger on the scene of the battle.
The fight had gone poorly from the start. The guards on the wagons had been pulled down and chopped, or perhaps ripped apart. Other attackers had pushed into the ring of men with apparent ease, as the bodies of stave-armed muleteers in misshapen heaps attested. The merchants had been pulled onto the wagons and gutted, while the guards were picked off one by one.
And from that somehow one got away, albeit temporarily? It didn't add up. The wagons had at least been looted, but so far that was the only evidence that this had been a standard bandit raid.
He found his gaze drawn by a twisting feeling in his gut to the carriage, which sat off behind the wagons a short ways, practically unmolested. The dismounted szedak followed his gaze, blanched, and turned back to the wreck. Jassard frowned.
"What's in there?"
The man shook his head and knelt to pick through a body.
Muttering an oath to the Old Gods under his breath, Jassard made his way towards the carriage. Every step filled him with unease, and by the time he reached the back where the doors sat latched closed, he was practically shaking. He reached out slowly and unlatched the door.
The stench hit him first, a wall of decay, miasma, and death. Then it was the sight, and like a cold dagger in his back fear rose and for a moment took over his mind, screaming only RUN RUN RUN. Retching, he doubled over and ripped his mask off, then puked into the grass several times. It was several minutes before he regained composure and could replace his mask.
The caravan had been quite a bit larger then he'd first guessed. Perhaps twice as much so, with two mules to a wagon and a pair of horses for the carriage. All those that weren't lying dead out on the road were there in carriage, forced inside living or dead, and then those that were still alive had been locked in.
The mounted rider didn't even acknowledge Jassard as he walked up, shaking with anger and terror and the lingering psychic taint of the slaughter.
"Did you find a letter, bound with the seal of the Duke? This party received it at Tjrgova, it was a message to the lord of the Brecon Marches, from where this caravan hailed and to which they were returning."
The rider glanced only briefly at the carriage, from which a steady trickle of blood had begun to flow out the open doors, and shook his head. "We found no such seal among the bodies here. The.... bandits must have taken it."
Jassard swore under his breath, but he couldn't blame the man, not anymore. "No helping it then. I'll head north, to Breconhall, to act as the Duke's emissary and warn them of what's coming. You need to report back immediately, and get the message to the capital. Then send a party out here and burn the whole lot, including the dead man by the tree."
He had mounted up and was practically ready to ride before the tziedz spoke again.
"Who needs to be warned of anything? A vicious bandit attack, but we'll hunt them down in a fortnight."
His words lacked conviction, he was resigned to what was going to happen next but had resolved to at least force Jassard to be the one to speak it. Jassard could only sigh.
"Report that somehow, they slipped by us. Slipped by the watch, by the Fallen, by the... guests. Warn them the Infernals have found a way back into Kavelia."
Jassard examined the body only momentarily, but saw enough to know something was off. A set of rough tracks approached the tree, and while the imprints on the dead man's boots were barely distinguishable there were several sets of tracks made by either a creature that walked on two feet or four, or possibly switched between both. The sword had shattered into several pieces, an unusual way for a blade to break, and though the wounds that likely killed the man appeared to have been made by sort of pole weapon he was sliced irregularly all across his body, as if clawed and gouged by beasts.
Normally Jassard would have buried the man, or at least taken the time to burn him, but at the moment he had need of haste. He offered a quick prayer to the Old Gods and then remounted and continued off towards the north, following the tracks, where the last report had said the rest of the massacre had happened.
***
He saw the Jendarmerie well before they noticed him. They were two, one mounted like a lookout or guard, and the other picking his way slowly between the wreck of the caravan. As soon as the stench drifted downwind Jassard's horse stiffened, then, slipped into a quick trot, eager to meet up with familiar scents. The mounted rider, who appeared to be scanning the horizon to the northeast turned at the sound and lifted his lance in greeting. Jassard waved in response and made his way next to the rider. No sooner had he approached the smell of the massacre hit him full blast, and he gagged under his mask.
A tassel on his helmet and small insignia on his armor above his heart indicated his rank as a tziedez of the Jendarmerie. He scowled at the sight of the mask that marked Jassard for one of the Duke's Hounds and gave only a slight grunt in response before speaking.
"They send the Faceless to look into brigandry now?" He let the question linger for a moment before continuing. "I did not know things were so secure on the southern watch." The soldier spoke with a certainty that belied the fear in his voice. He had clearly seen just as much as Jassard had, and was able to piece two and two together just as well. But unlike Jassard, he did not want to believe.
"You know as well as I do no brigands did this," Jassard muttered in reply. "And anyway the Hounds have always been sent when the Duke's Peace is broken, but maybe you didn't always see them."
The rider had paled at Jassard's first statement, and now he looked away and refused to engage with his fear. For several minutes they sat in silence, watching the dismounted soldier picking through the mess and listening to the howl of the wind and the buzzing of the corpse flies. After a bit Jassard dismounted and made his way over to the other man, who looked up only for a moment at his approach.
Jassard said nothing at first, only examined the remains of the caravan. Something about the whole scene was off, aside from the particularly brutal nature of the killing, which was a problem Jassard had already solved. The caravan was a fairly large one, nine wagons, each with two or three hands. Besides the mules for the wagons there had been a dozen horses, ridden no doubt by the guards, and finally a small carriage in the back, too small to be used to transport people. Around twenty caravan hands then, plus a dozen guards and a few merchants. At least that his estimate based on the number of easily identifiable corpses fallen in a rough semi-circle.
It wasn't terribly hard to put together a picture of how the battle had went, and Jassard played it all out in his mind. They had been surprised, but not so much so they hadn't the time to get into a defensive position. Four wagons had been pulled together to form a semi-circular wall, with a few guards in the wagons themselves, then the merchants in the center and the guards, caravan hands, and muleteers in a ring from wagon edge to wagon edge. From the start it was a strange formation, not because a wagon circle wasn't the best defense against raiders, but because of the disregard shown for protection against missiles. That meant either the guards were rank amateurs or they had realized the attackers had no archers or javelins. The former was simply unlikely for a caravan trading in this day and age, the latter was against every common bit of wisdom there was when it came to plundering for a living.
As before, there was a very simple conclusion, but even as he knew it to be true he was hesitant to speak the words out loud. He glanced back at the rider, who was back to scanning the horizon, refusing to let his gaze linger on the scene of the battle.
The fight had gone poorly from the start. The guards on the wagons had been pulled down and chopped, or perhaps ripped apart. Other attackers had pushed into the ring of men with apparent ease, as the bodies of stave-armed muleteers in misshapen heaps attested. The merchants had been pulled onto the wagons and gutted, while the guards were picked off one by one.
And from that somehow one got away, albeit temporarily? It didn't add up. The wagons had at least been looted, but so far that was the only evidence that this had been a standard bandit raid.
He found his gaze drawn by a twisting feeling in his gut to the carriage, which sat off behind the wagons a short ways, practically unmolested. The dismounted szedak followed his gaze, blanched, and turned back to the wreck. Jassard frowned.
"What's in there?"
The man shook his head and knelt to pick through a body.
Muttering an oath to the Old Gods under his breath, Jassard made his way towards the carriage. Every step filled him with unease, and by the time he reached the back where the doors sat latched closed, he was practically shaking. He reached out slowly and unlatched the door.
The stench hit him first, a wall of decay, miasma, and death. Then it was the sight, and like a cold dagger in his back fear rose and for a moment took over his mind, screaming only RUN RUN RUN. Retching, he doubled over and ripped his mask off, then puked into the grass several times. It was several minutes before he regained composure and could replace his mask.
The caravan had been quite a bit larger then he'd first guessed. Perhaps twice as much so, with two mules to a wagon and a pair of horses for the carriage. All those that weren't lying dead out on the road were there in carriage, forced inside living or dead, and then those that were still alive had been locked in.
The mounted rider didn't even acknowledge Jassard as he walked up, shaking with anger and terror and the lingering psychic taint of the slaughter.
"Did you find a letter, bound with the seal of the Duke? This party received it at Tjrgova, it was a message to the lord of the Brecon Marches, from where this caravan hailed and to which they were returning."
The rider glanced only briefly at the carriage, from which a steady trickle of blood had begun to flow out the open doors, and shook his head. "We found no such seal among the bodies here. The.... bandits must have taken it."
Jassard swore under his breath, but he couldn't blame the man, not anymore. "No helping it then. I'll head north, to Breconhall, to act as the Duke's emissary and warn them of what's coming. You need to report back immediately, and get the message to the capital. Then send a party out here and burn the whole lot, including the dead man by the tree."
He had mounted up and was practically ready to ride before the tziedz spoke again.
"Who needs to be warned of anything? A vicious bandit attack, but we'll hunt them down in a fortnight."
His words lacked conviction, he was resigned to what was going to happen next but had resolved to at least force Jassard to be the one to speak it. Jassard could only sigh.
"Report that somehow, they slipped by us. Slipped by the watch, by the Fallen, by the... guests. Warn them the Infernals have found a way back into Kavelia."