The Barrowland Slayers

Chapter 14: Refugees

 "We all know what's coming for us just north of the river," Darius intoned, meeting the gaze of the nearest refugees. They had gathered together in the center of the encampment, sharing a communal meal of soup and black bread. Leaders of various refugee columns had begun the impromptu meeting by reminding the group of the stakes they faced, and while Darius was no great speaker, many of the survivors around him knew him from the fighting around the marshlands. "It's also no secret that the duke here wants the Band to hang."

Murmuring broke out among the gathered groups, heads nodding, others staring into their bowls as if for answers. A month ago Darius figured they would have spat at the idea of working with Dwarves and Elves. Yet they'd seen them firsthand, whether struggling alongside them in the line of battle or sheltering in place while they'd borne the brunt of the undead onslaught.

"We're alive today because of them," Darius said, his voice rising as he grew more heated. "You know it, I know it... we all know it." His eyes flitted toward the gate leading out of the prison camp. A few guards were there, armored in chainmail and with the Duke's emblem on their surcoats, bored faces as they kept watch from afar. Still, there might be a mole among the group... perhaps someone willing to trade information for comfort. Darius let out a long breath as he came to terms with it.

Yet we don't have time to waste. If not tonight, they'll no doubt be coming the next night—and the Band will be dead. It's now or never.

Darius leaned forward, eyes intent. "We need to spring the Band loose," he said. "Before sundown. Before they are hanged. Before the hordes of undead cross the river."

Chatter increased among the refugees gathered around him. He had their attention now.

"Any weapons we can craft, craft them now. Any tricks we can pull... lures to draw the guards away..." Darius licked his lips. "We spring ourselves out today or we die trying. There simply is no other option."

A few nodded grimly nearby, but he could also see the hesitation in a number of faces around him. One man rose, finally, fixing Darius with a piercing scowl.

"I'm grateful to those strangers, sure. But a witch... Elves, Dwarves..." The man shrugged. "No wonder the Inquisition has them chained up. They're dangerous."

Darius pursed his lips. Others were growling at the man, shouting insults, but a significant minority of the group seemed to be with him. "You don't know them like I do," Darius said, when the sounds had diminished. "They're capable, yes, but hardly the monsters you make them out to be. They're also our only chance of survival."

The man scowled, finally taking a seat. "And how do you figure that?"

"They fought their way past enormous hordes, with numbers you could scarcely imagine." Darius let out a sigh as he sank back. "I was there to see it, fighting along with them... and you doubt their motives? Why, they were on a suicide mission to end the plague at the very heart of it all. The Barrowlands." He paused, realizing he'd drawn the attention of the camp. Darius leaned back thoughtfully. "We marched north together, skirting the ruins of Bertright, and within hours we were in the foothills..."

***

Darius figured the beast in front of him must have been the height of a house, smelling like a blacksmith and clanging with every step it took. He drifted deeper back into the long grass with the others. Finding his throat was dry, he could muster little more than a low, guttural murmur. Gynefra, her face mostly concealed by the long grass as well, nodded. It seemed as though the ground shook as the great beast turned and strode away.

The muscular gray forms beside it were man-height, but seemed like the giant's playthings. Darius chanced another look to confirm it.

Orcs.