Burying Grudges — Song of Arventis, Part Seven
Who would’ve thought burying corpses could be made into an act of spite?
Link back to Part One
Following in the wake of the army which had pressed him into forced service did not strike Arventis as the most clever idea. But neither did tromping off on his own through the woods, after having nearly starved to death doing that very thing only a couple days prior. So, stupid idea or no, after he climbed down out of the tower tree and scavenged a bundle of food from the corpses left by the battle he had witnessed, Arventis continued his trek north behind the Dellish army. Not like they’d turn around, right?
He picked his way behind the moving army with caution, making friends with the shadows and the trees to avoid the eyes of any scouts. At night, he warmed himself at the coals left in camp fire pits from the marching soldiers.
He kept his keen ears attuned to the rustle of wind in the forest, the chirp of crickets, listening for any disturbances that might alert him to other people. He was on edge. He’d narrowly escaped death in a war he didn’t give half a shit about, on the side of the country he loathed. He hoped now he had crossed the border, and reached his beloved (or at least, not loathed) Bergot.
But, he hadn’t. After his third day haunting the Dellish troops, he saw a gate further down the road. Or, rather, he saw smoke rising from the charred skeleton of a gate. The acrid scent stung his nostrils, and sharpened his other senses. He crept toward it.
Bodies littered the wood palisade. Bergian red cloaks, and a few Dellish green tunics. The southern brutes had stormed the border gate and slaughtered its wardens.
“Tsk,” Arventis clicked his tongue. “Shame.” He took a look around, and finding no survivors (or worthwhile loot), set himself to digging.
Burying men out of spite for the other side struck him as a petty act, sure. But he still felt a sense of fulfilled civic duty after he drug the last Bergian corpse to the grave and it slumped down into the dirt. He pushed loose earth over the jumble of limbs with a shield, and patted himself on the back. Then he spat on a Dellish corpse nearby.
He brushed himself off, and got back on the road. He saw a curl of smoke on the horizon. White chimney smoke, not the tarry black wisps like rose from the torched gate. And only a single plume. Not the dozens that an army camp produced.
An inn. Somewhere he could eat stew and drink cool ale from a mug. And bathe! A hot bath in a copper tub — even better than the warm waters of the druid enclave. The thought of a night in an inn swelled his heart. And not just any inn — a Bergian inn. Finally, he had escaped Dellin. Or, so he hoped. He tamped down his hope, sharpening his vigilance. He knew between him and the inn, something, anything, could go wrong.
If you stuck around this long, hopefully you enjoyed the story and didn’t simply finish it out of spite. And if you liked it, do my ego a favor and throw some claps, maybe a response, or a follow my way.
We have now passed the midpoint of Arventis’s long journey. I can promise music (on the page), violence (on the page), and terror (on the page, as well as in my own body on occasion) ahead. New chapter every Thursday.
