The Simian shook her head. She pointed southwards.
“Outside the village. There’s smoke coming from a barn.”
Farris’s heartbeat surged. Survivors! In a place as hopeless as this?
His face broke out into a smile. To think that some people had manged to survive both the horde and the purged land left in its wake.
Farris’s smile vanished, for he realised what this truly meant.
***
The scouts regrouped at the edge of the town. They too had found very little; far less that what one would expect from a town evacuated at short notice. As General-Commander Plackart explained the situation, pointing towards the thin trail of smoke that emanated from a building about half a mile to the south, the mood changed abruptly. In silence they mounted up, and made their way across the old dirt road as dusk began to set in. This took them uphill, where several buildings loomed ahead. Two granaries flanked a large wooden barn, and just as the scout had reported, smoke poured from a stone chimney atop its wide, grey-slated roof.
“What if there’s someone there?” whispered a scout behind Farris. He got no response, though Farris looked to Plackart for a reaction. The old Simian pretended not to hear, despite being well within earshot. Instead, he stared ahead; eyes focused on the first signs of life they’d come across since leaving Penance.
As they got closer, Farris could make out the smaller details of the barn. It seemed that the horde had come through here too, evidenced by flattened grass and fences surrounding the buildings. The granaries appeared to be untouched: two narrow wooden buildings raised a foot off the ground on short, stone columns. Both of their doors were shut tight. The door to the barn, on the other hand, was slightly ajar. Farris’s breath caught in his throat when he heard the faint sounds of whispering from within.
Plackart gestured them to dismount, which they did in silence. The seven Simians took their weapons off their mounts—polearms and spears and longswords among them—then walked towards the barn. Farris held his halberd in his hands, his fingers wrapped tight about the shaft. Ahead of him, Plackart wore his large greatsword on his back, its hilt rocking to and fro as he walked ahead of the party.
Without a knock, or even hesitation, Plackart pushed through the door.
The barn’s interior consisted mainly of a single room, with a high ceiling and large walls about the perimeter. These walls were barely visible, however, due to the stacks upon stacks of barrels, boxes, and crates piled upon each other. On the far side of the room was a stone hearth, with a meagre fire blazing within. Sitting around this was a small group of Humans, their pale faces turned towards the Simian intruders.
Farris’s throat immediately went dry as he drew closer to the group. At the front, was one elderly man with an ill-fitting chainmail coif around his head and shoulders. Next to him stood a burly middle-aged man who gripped a spear in trembling hands. Behind him was a woman of a similar age, who stood before two young children, as if to shield them against the Simians who had barged into their home.
“I am General-Commander Plackart of the Triad,” boomed the Simian’s voice as he approached. “The army of the Triad has need of the grain and provisions of Point Grey left behind by the horde. If you—”
The middle-aged man spat on the ground. “You think you can come in here and steal from us? After all that’s happened?”
Plackart paused. “If you were to let me finish, we have ships that can take you to Penance in return, where your needs will be looked after.”
The old man stepped forward. “This farm has been in my family for generations. The stars themselves will fall before we hand it over to you rats!”
Farris grimaced. Please. Just listen to us. Please.
“You do not have any choice in the matter,” said Plackart, gesturing to the piles of crates around them. “These supplies are surely too much for a small family and will spoil before you can put them to use. The army of the Triad however could—”
“You can’t take it!” cried the middle-aged man. He moved to stand in front of his family. The spear in his hands was no longer shaking but raised towards Plackart. “Are you really going to kill a family of farmers for some food?”
Please. Let them see reason. Gods, let them see why it’s so important for them to listen.
It took Farris more than a moment to realise he was praying. He was actually praying.
“We’ve fought off worse than you,” said the woman. “We’ve protected this farm from crop blight and drought. Infestations of weevils and mice. Even the undead army came and went, and we stood through it all.”
“Exactly,” said the old man. “And what’s a few armoured rats compared to the mass of the undead?”
Farris closed his eyes. Please, let them see reason. Just let them give us what we need.
Plackart took his greatsword into his hands. Its blade was as longer than the armed man was tall, and thicker than the elderly man was wide.
“We will not ask again,” said Plackart. “In the name of the Triad, I command you give us control of your supplies. We wish to resolve this peacefully.”
But the family stood strong.
Of course. This is their home. This is the fruits of their labour. Why would they listen to us? We are strangers… intruders… no different than the Firstborn four hundred years ago.
He closed his eyes. There must be another way. Another solution. Perhaps we can take just half, or offer to purchase a volume or—
A creak of wood overhead disrupted Farris’s trail of thought. He opened his eyes but dared not look up. Instead, he saw the middle-aged man glance upwards for a moment, then back at Plackart.
Something’s wrong. Farris shifted the grip on his halberd.
Closing his eyes again, he focused on the sound overhead. Somewhere between the beats of his pounding heart, he heard it again. A slight creak, like a foot upon a wooden beam. Then came the faint sound of a sharp intake of breath. Farris bent his knees, ready now for what was to come.
A dark shape fell from the ceiling, plummeting towards Plackart’s head. As soon as it came into view, however, Farris leapt, swinging his halberd towards it. With a sharp yell, the dark shape fell aside, the light of the fire revealing it as a young lad clutching a dagger in two hands. He wore a simple white shirt, stained heavily with blood pouring from his waist.
Farris glanced down at his own weapon; the axe-head covered in the blood of the boy.
“No,” Farris whimpered.
The woman screamed, clutching the two children into her body. Both Humans ran towards Plackart, the younger plunging the spear towards him.
“No!” roared Farris. “We can—”
But the Commander’s greatsword was already in motion. With a deft forward movement, Plackart swung the blade in a large arc, striking both men at once. The two fell, and the woman’s screams were joined by those of the children.
“No!!” Farris cried. He dropped to his knees. The stone hearth was stained with blood. The body of the younger lad still twitched in the light of the fire.
