“You know,” Sorina says, voice raising over the tumult. “I can’t say I missed this.”

  I don’t blame her.

  The villagers are standing now, bickering at one another in their groups, drowning out whatever placating words Erot is trying to use.

  “Leave?!? My daughter is still at the village!”

  “Sheila’s mother is there as well—”

  “They’re gone—we’re alive! Erot’s right, we should be going to protect ourselves—”

  “We should be mounting an assault.”

  “And then what? Leave the farm undefended? We’ve been attacked every night practically—if we leave, then we leave our families to die—”

  “Then we should all assault Takemeadow—”

  “Are you a fool?!? I don’t want to take our children!”

  I sigh and turn to Sorina, nudging my head towards the unfolding chaos.

  She grimaces, but understands what to do. Inhaling a deep breath, her cheeks puff out in what might be a cute, almost pouty expression—if not for the sharp, ear-piercing whistling that comes after.

  Everyone covers their ears. All arguments cease.

  Sorina takes another deep breath before standing and dusting off her hands.

  “Well then, sounds like we’re doing another Town Hall meeting.”

  …

  They gather into proper blocs. Many stand besides Erot—those who want to leave. That includes a great number of guardsmen, surprisingly. Most of the young washwomen and the workers take the stance of retaking the village via assault. The rest are either in the stay camp, or the undecided camp.

  But a few go to Sorina, even without having heard her opinion. Some loyalty still remains I suppose.

  At least this way, it's far more civil.

  Dandy watches the proceedings besides me and yawns.

  “Maybe you should go to sleep—”

  “No! I want to stay with you!” She shakes my arm violently. “You can’t leave again.”

  I sigh and ruffle her hair once more, though this time she squirms away and bites my hand.

  As I shake off the teeth-marked wrist, the meeting begins in earnest.

  “Let’s try and keep this organized,” Sorina starts. “Each group will have their chance to make a case. Then, we can get into responses. Does that sound good?”

  Grumbles of agreement pass on by, before one of the men—a fellow in the stay camp—raises his hand.

  “I’ll start,” he says, his tone fairly polished and carrying none of the usual village accents. Perhaps a merchant? His robes look richer than the others and his blonde hair gleams in the starlight with well-groomed curls. “Erot’s farm, which he has so kindly provided to us—”

  “As if I had a choice,” Erot mumbles. Though I can tell he’s only joking.

  The merchant man clears his throat. “Like I was saying, this farm, this position we hold is… defensible at the least. If we take to the road, we would be wide out in the open. And in any case,” he gestures to the land around him, as if trying to gorge himself of all its open beauty. “Where would we go?”

  A few murmurs of agreement at that, even from the other camps. He presses forth.

  “North is not an option, for Catolica would nay accept our kind, and Havenmarch is already overrun by the rot. West we may sail to Forgecrests, but their people have never meshed well with ours. Whose to say they will even heed our call? They care not for the troubles of the continent. Fangshade? We have not heard from them for a time. They are strangers to us. And Netsreach? They too will be destroyed, as we have been destroyed.”

  “So what are ye saying?” one burlier woman asks from Erot’s group. “Should we sit here and wait for that blight to take us?”

  The merchant’s eye twitches. “No, I’m saying that we should stay here, where it is safe.”

  “It won’t be safe here ‘neither” Erot says now, stepping forth. “Take it from me: eventually this place will fall. I don’ care for these lands though. No care for these… crops and fields.” He spits. “I have lost too much. As have we all. I am not willin’ to lose more.”

  “And what, should we abandon those whom we’ve ‘lost’ already?” a washwoman speaks up. She wears a handkerchief around her head and has a pretty, freckled face. A fierce gaze too. “My brother is still out there. I will not leave him to die in our burning home.” Her gaze roves to the guardsmen. “Shame on you lot. You big men with your big spears, yet you have no willingness to use them to save your own folk.”

  “Don’t you think we want to?” one of the men shouts back, nearly inciting another yelling session. But Sorina gives him a hard glare and he takes a step back, breathing slowly. “I want to go back more than anyone else. I can promise you that,” he mutters darkly. “But I’m not willing to fight my daughter. To kill my daughter.”

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Ah. There it is. The real crux of it all.

  These people—they watched their own turn against them and kill their own kind. Of course many wouldn’t be willing to readily mount an assault.

  It's something I didn’t consider. Though now, as that possibility stills the air and makes all of our miserable lot question the cruel nature of this plague, an idea begins to form in my head.

  Before it can take full shape, Sorina speaks up.

  “I was out there. I saw it in full. It was… brutal,” she says. “And I promise you all, no matter what we do, whether we leave, or stay, attack or not, we will eventually all suffer the same fate.” For emphasis, Sorina holds up her stump. Everyone stares quietly. Some, mournfully even.

  “I think everyone here has made good points. But, I promise you, there is no help coming. Catolica will not save us. This plague is merely a means to an end. A way to amass an army for the witch whose hand the rot spills forth from. And they do not move alone either—I’m sure some of you have heard of Sorayvlad and its part in this war.”

  A few evidently hadn’t for whispers of surprise seep forth and many turn to me, eyeing my foreign face with suspicion. Dandy stick a tongue at some of them.

  “So what are ya saying?” Erot asks.

  “I’m saying, maybe it's time we unite the free villages.”

  Silence.

  She continues. “It might seem preposterous, but if we can establish a confederation, perhaps we can form a unified defensive army and protect our people —”

  “With the Forgecrests? I’d rather die,” one man speaks out.

  “Those fish-shagging bastards at Netsreach will weigh us down. They can’t fight for nothing. Can’t even protect themselves from nature’s wrath.”

  More protests. More unrest.

  Even Erot looks perturbed by this suggestion, though I know his reasoning is different. And it has to do with that shitty hammerhead and his past with the old farmer.

  Or rather, the old warrior of Fangshade.

  “It’s not an option,” the merchant eventually says, wheeling on Sorina. “We should stay.”

  “Can you not at least consider the benefits—”

  “Whose to say they’d even want us as allies?” he spits. “Look at us! We are half a village. We have mostly women and children, we have no strength.” He barks out a laugh. “Our former mayor is a cripple and our current is a weak old man—”

  Erot strides up to the merchant and headbutts him.

  All hell breaks loose for a moment as the groups clash, fists flying.

  Dandy starts cheering her grandfather like it’s some festival game as I stare at the ground, mind making its conclusions.

  “Is there help coming?” That blacksmith had asked. I lock eyes with him now. He’s the only one not engaging at all in the brawl, though I’m sure he’d be a fine contender. His arms bulge with muscle.

  There’s a darkness to his gaze as well. A shadow. He looks to the village, not us. Perhaps he too has left someone behind.

  I make my decision as Sorina deftly breaks the fight up with her followers, the people holding Erot and the merchant back from each other, the two snapping like wild dogs.

  It takes six men to hold Erot down. Old man’s got strength, I’ll give him that.

  “You old bitter bastard,” the merchant spits blood. “Don’t you realize I’m trying to help you all? We’re going all going to die—”

  “I’ll do it,” I say standing now. My voice rings clear over them. The fire crackles behind, spitting sparks.

  “Do what?” Erot asks, breath ragged.

  “I’ll go to the village.”

  There’s a moment of silence. Then, the merchant spits again. And a younger man from his group pipes up.

  “Who the fuck are you?!?” that young man spins in place, looking for any recognition from the people. Then, probably realizing that I had journeyed back with Sorina, he turns to her. “Who the fuck is he?”

  But Sorina is too busy staring at me with a confused expression. I think she knows what I’m about to say. She can see it in my eyes.

  “My name is Raiten. I’m from Clan Adachi, but I do not claim that name. I was their slave. Their… Thunder Watcher.”

  A few people recognize the title, but most do not.

  Instead, they regard me with confusion more than suspicion.

  I walk up to the merchant. Bend down to meet his gaze.

  “You imply that we are weak. I think you’re right. I think anybody would be weak in the face of their own family, turned into monsters.”

  His mouth makes a thin line.

  I continue “Use me. I’m an outsider. And moreover, I’m a killer. A good one. With me, we have value to the other villages—should they want to form a pact. And with me, Takemeadow can be reclaimed.”

  “So…” the young washwoman ventures. “You want to lead an assault with us?”

  I look at Sorina. She grimaces as her suspicions are confirmed.

  “No,” I say simply, standing now. “I’m going to go to Takemeadow. Alone. And I’m going to kill all the plagued, find any survivors, and return.”

  I look at the blacksmith now. He gives me a strangely knowing nod of approval.

  “Then,” I continue, eyes roving to the leavers and the undecided. “We should listen to our mayor and do our best to form an army between the Free Villages.”

  “Are you mad?” An older woman asks. A few of the guardsmen—the younger ones—outright laugh at me.

  With a shrug, I go to the campfire, place my hand over it, and cook my fingers. The flesh sizzles for a moment.

  “Raiten…” Sorina begins, but I hold my other hand up.

  First degree. Second. Just as it gets to the third, I withdraw the hand, do my best to mask the unyielding pain, and hold fingers up to everyone.

  And not a word is uttered as the flesh mends, healing.

  “I was cursed by my clan. Cursed by the man who currently leads Sorayvlad against us,” I continue, stalking around now. Opening and closing my fist. “If you do not want to reclaim the village, that’s fine. Let me be your sword. This way, no lives will be risked in an assault.”

  I have my own reasons of course. More selfish.

  But this mask of moral math will have to do.

  As the last of the skin knits back together, I take one more look at the various groups, many of whom are wide-eyed, confused, and afraid.

  “Any questions?”