The Camp

  “Welcome, refugees from the surrounding counties of Jishim, Brugen, Hoom, and beyond. Siradorn and its council greets you with open arms and heavy hearts. Until quarters are available, you must, unfortunately, remain outside the walls. Of course, should any of our shared enemies siege our beloved city, you will find protection within our walls. Maker have mercy upon us all.”

  -Earl Juilus, addressing the council of Brugenauts.

  Amiran’s pupils narrowed, adjusting quickly to the midday light. His eyes focused, finding himself in a forest clearing surrounded by trees covered in brilliant orange and yellow leaves. The crisp autumn breeze chilled his naked skin just as the noon sun’s light warmed his face, sensations that were almost overwhelming compared to the unchanging environment of his cell. The birdsong of the forest and rustling of leaves in the wind filled his ears, a welcome change from the chittering of rats and sound of water dripping on stone. Behind him was a small, ruined tower whose rusted gate hung uselessly to the side of its entrance from which he exited. A single dirt path broke out of the trees and into the clearing. Amiran took a step towards it.

  The singing in the trees stopped as soon as his foot landed in the soft, decomposing layer of fallen leaves that covered the ground. A squirrel in a nearby tree made a warning kuk kuk, signaling to the other creatures of the forest that danger was near. Amiran did a quick sweep of the wood's edge and saw nothing. Then it dawned on him: he was the predator, he was the danger that stopped the birds’ song in their throats. Of course, how could he expect to be seen as anything but? He had just devoured a man whole, raw. The nameless guard’s blood still covered Amiran’s face and chest; he undoubtedly reeked of murder. Though he remembered nothing before his awakening in the cell, he knew that this–that he was not natural. This bothered him only slightly, what was he to do about it? He could not sit idle and ponder on this, there were too many questions that seemed to fill the very fibers of his muscles, urging him forward and down that dirt path.

  The forest was silent as the lone figure followed the narrow trail. It was as straight as far as unpaved paths go, allowing Armian to keep his eyes to the sky, which was now barely obscured by the thinning foliage of the trees. He appreciated how the thin beams of light forced their way through the remaining leaves that still stubbornly hung onto their branches despite their time and usefulness having long since passed. The silence that followed him made the sound of his bare feet against the compacted dirt and loose stones made him feel as if he was the last being on earth. It was the smell that brought him out from this near-meditative walk. The unmistakable yet familiar stench of rotting meat told him of the pile of nearly a dozen horse corpses long before he laid his eyes upon them. Amiran, all but immunized to the stench of rot, approached the open grave. The horses that had not already long been picked clean by the wildlife each had a poorly cut strip of meat carved from their flanks and a single, long gash across their throats. Amiran deduced that this was where the guard had been sourcing his “meals”, but why the waste? He laid his eyes on the freshest corpse, this one that had been slaughtered mere hours before and bore little of the desiccation or bloating of the others. It was on this one that a symbol could be seen on the creature’s left shoulder. The horse had been marked with a brand depicting a grinning skull, seared into it recently enough that the burns had yet to scar over before its death. Closer observation showed that every horse in the mass grave had the same brand burned into it, but for what purpose was unclear.

  As he continued his hike, a vague sense of familiarity told him that the trail's end was near. He felt as if he were recognizing the various landmarks like boulders and oddly shaped trees that lined the path. Has he been here before? He stepped off the trail and into the cover of the forest, a fleeting memory warning him of the guards standing sentry at their post a mere few yards from the edge of the woods. The two men stood at the corner of a wide road whose well-laid paving stones ran parallel to the forest’s edge before continuing well beyond into the eastern horizon. They chatted casually, occasionally blowing into their cupped hands to ward off the slight chill of the autumn afternoon. All the while unaware of the presence observing them from only a stone’s throw away. Amiran looked past them, past the short green grass and shrubbery that waved listlessly in the cool breeze, where he saw high stone walls. In the center of them was a wooden gate, tall and imposing from even this distance, that stood with sturdy towers to either side of it, most certainly stocked with guards of their own. What fortress was this? Amiran tried to remember something, anything, that might tell him where he was. These blurred memories and feelings were of little use to him; why imprison him in some ruined dungeon when there was this bastion of stone and men so close? Why continue to bring him meals despite it being obvious he would not eat? Why keep him alive at all? He could feel an infinite tide of questions beginning to push at the thin barrier of his composure, he could not let them flow quite yet.

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  “Not fortress. Siradorn.”

  Amiran whirled, claw-like nails already whipping through the air toward whatever was behind him, only for them to continue passing through empty space. The immense force of his swing threw him off balance, nearly causing him to fall into the layer of leaves that covered the forest floor. Amiran quickly scanned the trees around him for the source, neither sensing nor seeing anyone responsible. He did not doubt that he had heard…something. It was certainly not the Voice that had been absent since his naming, no, this voice sounded unsure, as if it had just awoken from a poor night’s rest. Unnerved, he immediately distanced himself from the spot by trudging towards the west, towards the sun that had now just begun its journey to dusk.

  He kept to the trees. Amiran may not know who, what, why, or where he was, but he was no fool. What he lacked in memory he made up for in intuition and instinct; he would be set upon in mere minutes were he to risk traveling on the road. Intuition also told him that he would find answers to all those questions he dared not ask inside those imposing walls. Now, it was only a matter of how to get in. Obviously, he could no more easily walk through the main gate as he could step foot on the road–he would find his way in, but it wouldn't be here.

  The acrid smoke of cooking fires stung his nostrils long before he came upon the first tent. Not so much a tent as a crude shelter; some locally sourced fallen branches propped up a patchwork canvas made up of sewn-together bits of old clothes, rags, and other miscellaneous patches of any material a needle and thread would hold together. Some worn tools and the remains of a cart lay on about the perimeter of the tent, the nearby ground so trodden as to become mud. Amiran looked further, stepping out from behind the trunk of an ancient oak tree and risking a position closer to the edge of the woods to get a better view.

  While this tent sat alone at the edge of the woods, only a short distance away were even more ramshackle shelters in a row, some side by side, others spaced to make room for a footpath that led further into the center of the camp that teemed with people. Beyond this set of tents was another row, more densely packed together than the ones before it, and then another row, and another, continuing until the shacks and shanties pressed against the walls of Siradorn. These great walls forced them to spread out until the edge of the next tree line. Men, women, and children, most dressed in varying states of worn and dirty clothing-went about their business, crawling in and out of tents, trying in vain to keep the mud out of their dwellings and off their clothes. The activity increased as Amiran looked towards the center of the camp, where a large, guarded cart was being unloaded, its contents being distributed to a line of patient inhabitants that snaked around and out into the main road. The road itself was rife with activity, wearied people on foot or in horse-drawn carts made their way to the camp, their backs to the setting sun as they trudged onwards with effort. As one of the families approached the edge of the camp with their cart, a squad of armed guards briskly walked up to them and motioned for them to stop. The men undid the pair of horses from their harnesses and led them away as quickly as they’d arrived. The man driving the cart could hardly protest before his wife quieted him.

  The shuffle of leaves behind him drew Amiran’s attention. He turned as he stood from his crouched position to find a middle-aged man, eyes wide with fear, standing amongst the trees. He wore similarly ragged clothes to the others in the camp, a patched wool cap pulled low to cover the tips of his ears, chilled by the near-evening autumn breeze. He held a simple bow, string pulled taught with an arrow notched, pointing directly at the beast’s chest. The limp rabbits tied to the hunter’s belt suggested he was well-practiced. Amiran was confident he could close the gap between them and silence the hunter before he alerted the camp to his presence; however, he was not confident he would come out unscathed in the process. They both hesitated–the hunter, frozen in fear; and Amiran, deciding the best course of action.

  A chipmunk speeds through the leaves between them.