The first thing Targ noticed was the echoing of their footsteps on the cobble road that ran through the center of the village. That, and the complete silence every echo sliced through. Everywhere he looked, he could see the trappings of everyday life. Curtains fluttered through open windows, clean laundry swung on lines, hung out to dry. A ball stood still before an abandoned doorway, and shutters flapped in another, caught in a gust of wind.
"Where are they?" Alena asked.
"Don't know." Gailen replied.
"Are you sure they're not dead?" Targ asked.
"My nose does not lie, Targ."
"Then where are they?" Alena insisted.
"Who knows? They're not dead...or at least they didn't die here."
"That's comforting." Targ snorted. "Personally, I think we should leave...this place gives me the creeps. It's like a ghost town."
Both Alena and Gailen paused mid-stride, and stared at Targ.
"A what?" Alena asked.
"What do you mean, Alena?" Targ asked
"What you said." Alena replied, "A...what was it? Ghost town?"
"What about it?"
"Targ, we don't know what that is." Gailen said.
"What is a ghost town?" Alena asked.
Targ felt a twinge of embarrassment. Where did that come from, I wonder? But...it seems fitting. "I don't know, Alena...but it seems like one to me. Whatever a ghost town is, this is it."
The breeze that had picked up when they entered the little village began to dislodge the small ball that Targ had been watching moments before.
"It's getting cold." Alena shivered. "Are we going to find some shelter?"
Gailen looked at Targ a second more, as if he were going to ask another question, then nodded further down the road. "That way is what looked like an inn. I'm sure there'll be a place to rest there."
Alena frowned, "Where? I don't see..."
"Feral, remember? It's down there."
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Twenty minutes later, Targ found himself in an upstairs room overlooking the village square. Gailen felt this room held the best vantage point for whomsoever's turn it was on watch. Gailen nearly collapsed from exhaustion when Alena finally coaxed him out of his Feral story.
"Gailen, you can't keep using this story." Alena cried, "Look at you, it's completely drained you."
"I'll recover, just let me rest a bit."
"No! You have to listen. There's a reason Sages don't use stories on themselves." She insisted. "It isn't safe, you know that."
"What choice do we have? We need the extra advantage my Feral story gives us. Now, if you don't mind, I need some rest."
Gailen stretched out on the bed he had chosen. Most of the blankets were ratty and seemed to have dry rot, that would send puffs of dust into the air whenever he pulled on them. The blanket that Gailen attempted to cover with himself sent up another plume of dust at his movements.
"Targ, tell him he can't use that story anymore!" Alena jumped up and ran to Targ for support. "He just can't!"
Targ paused a moment, and looked from Alena to Gailen, who was now rolling away from them. "I don't see how we have any choice in the matter."
Alena's eyes narrowed. "Fine. If you're both going to be stupid, I don't see how I can stop you."
Turning away, she stomped to the small bunk she had chosen. Targ noticed her blankets were just as ratty as the rest, but when she climbed in, they did not belch dry rot dust as Gailen's had. She did insist on that bunk...I wonder if she knew it was the one in the best condition.
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The coffee was overly strong, and the smell of sour mop permeated the café. The waitress in the short-skirted pink uniform sat behind the counter, chewing gum. Flies seemed abuzz in every corner of the place, and the linoleum tile was cracked and missing in several spots. Nothing looked good on the menu, and even now the coffee he had reluctantly chosen was turning his stomach.
Targ woke up, and looked around him.
Alena and Gailen were each sleeping in their respective bunks. Gailen's occasional snores were the only sound in the room. Moonlight streamed into the window that he had fallen asleep at. Once in a while the sound of a cricket would drift through the air from somewhere outside of the village.
Wow...I wonder what that dream was about...it seemed...oddly familiar.
Targ stood and stretched his sore legs and muscles, the dream quickly fading from his mind.
I have to stay awake. I wonder what time it is, or when my shift ends?
The street seemed as empty as before. Even the chilly breeze that had shown itself earlier seemed to have vanished.
I hope I wasn't out too long.
Targ looked around the room. It was small and sparsely furnished, a silvery white water basin sat upon the only table in the room. The two bunks and the chair he had been sitting on was all that the room had to offer. He idly wiped his finger along the worn window seal, I wonder how many before me sat at this window, and watched the local people go about their business each day.
...I wonder where they went.
Each cottage they had passed on their way to the inn had seemed spookier than the last. A few had their doors open, and in the moonlight each of them had peered into the darkness, hoping to catch a glimpse of what had happened. The inn's main common room that they had passed through to get to the room had been even creepier. Trays and mugs were left at tables as if someone had just gotten up to leave for a moment. Traveling packs had been left by the door, stuffed with supplies waiting for their owners.
None of this makes any sense. Gailen thinks we should check the packs before we go, Alena thinks it would be stealing...I'm not looking forward to the fight they'll have in the morning. But...we have no idea how long we'll be lost in these woods...Gailen's right. We need whatever we can get.
...Aug. I need to pee.
Looking for some relief, he wondered if the silver pot was meant for water or for use as a bathroom.
Well, I'm not peeing in here with Alena.
Stepping into the hallway Targ wondered which of the other six doors might be a rest room, or have its own chamber pot he could use.
The furthest is probably best, and it should give me the most privacy.
Opening that door, Targ slowly peered into what had obviously been someone's permanent living quarters. Plush throw rugs adorned the room, and even a tapestry or two hung on the walls. Half-used candles seemed placed every where there was space for them, but none of them were lit. On the far wall near the room's only window, stood a small bookcase, housing what appeared to be three books. Targ warily walked over to the bookcase, peering from left to right as if one of the shadows might detach itself and fling itself headlong into him.
Three books? A sage must've lived here.
Two of the books seemed gray, small, and unremarkable. The third one was lying on its side and was onyx black, and was thinner and taller than the other two.
Voices drifted in from the window where Targ stood near. Quietly, he snuck up to its candle wax covered edge, and peered out into the darkness. He strained his eyes and ears to figure out who was out there. A large hole that appeared to be about forty feet long and rectangular in shape was cut out of the ground behind the inn. A roll of soil and grass was bundled up next to it, as if it had been used to hide the hole until just recently.
"All right, this is the last chance to join us!" An all-too familiar voice spoke. The voice of 'Them'. A dark shadow stood over the pit, speaking down to what seemed to Targ like a large group of people squished together in the pit. He could barely make out the top of most of their heads.
"Think of your children!" 'Them' shouted. "I will not be this generous again."
Angry mumbling rose from the pit, as four hands rose up among the heads.
"Excellent." The dark being spoke. He waved an ever-changing hand in their direction, and several shadows appeared from the darkness, and pulled the hands from the crowd. Three women with several young children were set before the dark creature, and a dark-haired youth Targ would guess was no more than sixteen. "You have chosen well."
He nodded then. "Take them to the cleansing."
The shadows that had pulled them from the pit led the small group into the darkness away from the village. With another barely perceptible nod of his head, the rolled soil of grass and twigs began to roll across the opening. Cries for mercy echoed from the pit as it slowly closed.
"Mercy, is it?" 'Them' shouted over the screams. "Very well, I grant you mercy." With a loud shout, he raised his arms. "Come my brothers, feast on sweet man flesh!"
In seconds, all Targ could see were shadows swarming the screaming crowd, as the rolling soil continued to slowly close. Targ found his heart pounding as his thoughts stumbled over what he should do. Wake Gailen, tell him what I saw, that's the plan.
Turning, he began to head for the open door, pausing only just long enough to grab the black book.
"Stealing, are we?" An old sounding voice echoed from the doorway. "Guests are not to steal from their hosts, now are they, boy?"
A man in a dark and rotting robes stood in the doorway. The smell of mold seemed to follow him as he walked into the room and stopped before Targ. "This is mine, boy, give it to me."
Targ hesitated, This man seems human, ignoring the smell and clothes. Maybe I can reason with him.
"I'm sorry, good sir, we didn't know anyone was here."
"We?" The old man's voice crackled. "There are others with you?"
"Yes, but please keep it down, there are enemies about."
"Enemies? Oh, you mean 'Them". You are misinformed, boy, they are not our enemies. Now, give me the book!" He hissed.
"Wait a minute, I just saw them kill the entire village outside!"
"You saw that, did you, boy? That can be explained...after you give me my book."
Targ backed away from the man, shaking his head. The dark stringy hair over the old man's face could not hide his dark black eyes that now bulged in his head.
"Very well." He hissed. "If you will not give it to me, I shall take it."
Swirling darkness surrounded his right hand, and a staff of long gnarled wood appeared in it. Without hesitation he struck Targ full in the face with it.
Stars filled Targ's vision and he could feel a warm wetness running from his nose. "Give it, boy, or I will kill you."
A sweep of the staff, and Targ found himself slamming to the ground onto his hands and knees. The old man stood above him, lifting his staff high in preparation for one final blow to Targ's exposed head. Targ wanted to move, but his body seemed to betray him, just giving up. He was tired, and in pain, and just plain fed up with everything that had happened to him.
"I hate this place!" Targ shouted.
A cracked smile broke across the older man's face as he brought the staff down. With a loud thunk, the staff was stopped just inches from Targ's head. A large, nearly naked man dressed only in a loincloth and leather boots stood in the room with the two of them. His outstretched sword had deflected the blow.
Anger filled the man's chiseled face, and his muscles bulged as he easily forced the staff away from Targ.
The shock in the old man's face quickly turned to mirth, as he began to laugh and chortle.
"Stories cannot kill me, boy." He cackled, as tears came to his eyes.
The large muscular man seemed unfazed by this turn of events. He spat on the floor between himself and the old man. He lifted his sword for what was obviously a killing thrust, then shouted in a strange accent. "Now you die, Wizard! Taste my steel!"
The thrust was clear and straight. The old man made no attempt to avoid or block it, but continued to cackle at some unseen comedy in the room's events. Even as the blood began to flow from his body, and the sword struck, he laughed for a moment, before falling to his knees and to his right side on the floor. The large man pulled his sword free from the old man's body, and idly wiped it on the old man's filthy robes. He paused, and nodded to Targ, before running out of the room. Targ could hear his heavy footsteps disappear into the distance.
"Who the hell was that?" Gailen shouted.
"Quickly, Gailen!" Alena barked, kneeling next to Targ, "Help me with Targ. He's been hurt."
"Did you see that guy?" Gailen sounded like he ignored her plea.
"Yes, Gailen, but help me here." Alena replied, "I can't do this myself!"
Targ heard, rather than saw Gailen walk over to him. Darkness was quickly taking him, as consciousness began to slip away from him.
I wonder if I'll have that strange dream again...
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