The March of the Dead

We’ll build our numbers. We’ll take the Seven Seachtú. We’ll claim the power of the Academy. Then we’ll march on the capital, and I’ll claim the king’s power for myself.

They called my father Yarlaith the Black, but I shall be known as Morrígan the Godslayer.

***

Fionn sat alone at the bar of The Ferryman, a tavern in a far better state than implied by the gruesome sign outside. It was in the heart of Penance’s market district, attracting a wide range of customers from Simian merchants in the city to Human travellers from the south.

But none from the Shadow of Sin, Fionn reminded himself, taking a deep drink of red ale. People from that district prefer to keep to themselves.

A moon and a half had passed since he has last spoken to the Simian now named Farris, who had practically threatened Fionn for questioning the Silverback.

So much secrecy. How am I supposed to council a Triad that won’t let me be part of their work?

I’ve told you before, interjected Sir Bearach. The Silverback no longer has the welfare of the city among his priorities. There is too much he keeps hidden from us.

Us. That was the way Sir Bearach had been referring to them as of late. Stranger still, Fionn agreed with the knight.

It was true: the others of the Triad kept mainly to themselves. Even where their own was concerned. When the Simian named Garth—Farris’s brother—had returned from the Glenn, he had barely acknowledged his tardiness. It was Nicole who had pushed for an explanation, but the scout dismissed her queries just as he had everyone else’s. ‘I was delayed,’ was all he said. ‘Nothing major. Nothing worth discussing. We have more important work to do.’

What this ‘important work’ was, Fionn had no idea. So many meetings were carried out without him, with only rare inquiries into the nature of Pyromancy or Crystallography enough to make Fionn’s presence amongst the Triad even remotely relevant.

I wish Earthmaster Seán would return from Dromán, thought Fionn, taking another deep drink from his pint. He’d know what was going on. He’d know what to do.

Seeing Borris’s corpse the night he died was what spurred most of Fionn’s doubts. The scene itself had been a shock, with Borris’s wife inconsolably hysterical by her husband’s side, and Sir Bearach roaring commands at Fionn inside the mage’s head. Apparently, it had been one of the Seletoth’s Wraiths that killed the Simian, but how the City Guard came to that conclusion, Fionn didn’t know. After all, they had spent little time investigating the scene.

Fionn stared out through a dusty window across the bar.

Could the Silverback be lying? Could it be some kind of bid for—

A quick shape darted across the window, followed by another. Then another.

“Did you see that?” said the absent-minded bartender, looking up from his newspaper. “Some folk running?”

“Seems like it,” said Fionn, as three more Simians sprinted past the window. “Headed in the direction of the Rustlake.”

The bartender laughed. “Might be that they’re late for the ferry. People are dying to leave the city ever since what happened down by the Basilica.”

The other patrons of the bar took notice as more passed, some standing and craning their necks to see more. By the time Fionn stood too, scores of Simians had poured into the streets, all heading in the same direction.

“What’s happening?” asked the bartender. “What’s all the fuss about?”

Fionn paid him no mind, darting toward the door to see for himself. When he reached the crowded street, a glance southward was enough to confirm his previous suspicion: they were headed to the waterfront.

“What’s going on?” Fionn asked nobody in particular. A young Simian girl stopped to answer, looking up at the mage with wide, innocent eyes.

“Ships and boats just turned up in the Rustlake,” she said. “Lots of ’em!”

Strange.What could bring so many people to Penance at once?

Leaving any concern for his half-finished pint at the door of The Ferryman, Fionn hurried out toward the docks. The narrow streets of the Goldworks eventually opened up to the wide wharfs and promenades of the docklands. The roads coming and going were thick with people: Simians and Humans with expressions of dread, while oblivious children climbed the walls to get a better look at the spectacle.

Boats and vessels of all shapes and sizes filled the lake. Humans crowded fishing ships that rocked to and fro, threatening to throw its passengers out. Rowboats and canoes not built for long distance joined them, their capacities well past their critical masses.

A wooden trade cog was the first to reach the shore. As soon as it landed, the doors opened, and dozens of Humans spilled out, many dressed in rags, others crippled and wounded. They looked up at the Simian crowds, fear and pain in their eyes. One man stepped forward, walking with a limp. He grimaced in pain with each movement. When he spoke, it was as if each syllable brought agony to his lips, cracked and dried with thirst and exhaustion.

“The dead,” he croaked. “The dead marched on Point Grey. There’s no stopping them.”

***

“Four hundred people arrived from the Clifflands this morning. If what they say is true, more than that will be here by the turn of the moon.”

Ruairí delivered the report to the Triad meeting room, which was far fuller than usual. Businessmen and landowners throughout the city had come to hear the news, along with the usual attendees of the Silverback’s meetings.

Farris watched as Argyll reacted to the report. True, it had been Fionn who brought the news to the Triad first—an armada of ships from Point Grey carrying refugees from a battle Farris could have scarcely believed was possible—but it was Ruairí and the Sons of Seletoth who counted the new arrivals and began the insurmountable task of tending to their wounded.

“And what do they expect to find here?” growled Argyll, covering his eyes with a pale white hand. “What gives them the impression that they’ll be safe from this… this….”

“It has been described as a horde,” said Ruairí. “We know little about it now, but if there’s a sliver of truth in this account, we’ll be hearing about quite a lot more than we already have.”

Argyll leapt from his chair and leaned over the oaken table. He raised an aggressive finger toward the Human.

“Do you find this amusing?” he roared. “Would you really prefer we wait around for more news to reach us, sitting here twiddling our thumbs while we do so?”

“No,” muttered Ruairí, though he didn’t seem perturbed by Argyll’s outrage.

“We need to deal with this in whatever way necessary,” said Argyll. “We’ll put every other plan on hold in the meantime.”

The Silverback emphasised the word plan in a way that immediately let Farris and the other dissidents present understand what he meant. The march south. The Reapers. The Plan.

And we were so close, thought Farris, watching as Garth tried hard not to react to this turn of events too. With him back, and the Sons armed, it was only a matter of days before…

“I can give a discount to any who wish to take refuge in any of my homes,” said Wheaton the Wise, a Simian merchant who owned half the property of the Saltworks. “It’s a modest proposal, but I’m still a businessman in—”

“You’ll take them for no cost,” snapped Argyll. “The Triad will provide some compensation, but you’ll make no profit.”

“Y-yes,” said Wheaton, bowing slightly as he spoke. “That will do.”

“Now,” said Argyll, the fury from before completely removed from his tone. “Given the wide space provided by the Saltworks, we’ll set up a camp there. All vacant buildings in the region must be filled to capacity before we start setting up tents. Ruairí, the Sons may attend to this, aided by the City Guard.”

“Yes,” said Ruairí. With a curt nod, he vanished from the room.

“We’ll need to scout the Clifflands to gauge what exactly it is we’re dealing with. Garth, take ten of your best men and arm them for an expedition.”

“Please,” said Garth. “If I may make another suggestion.”

The Silverback nodded.