Chapter 3: 3. Stockpile

Watching from a raised section of the clearing, Mark eyed the acolytes as Henric ordered them to work. Using ropes and pulleys, they hoisted the prepared logs up into a trench they had dug. Stakes were then added for extra strength.

At this pace, we should be done in a couple of weeks.

He was impressed with their speed of progress, and maybe it was just a coincidence, but it felt like today’s chill bit deeper.

I need to find a better solution to our food problem.

Turning away from the screen, Mark spotted several figures through the skeletal canopy of the surrounding forest. They were picking at the undergrowth as they walked the forest floor, carrying sacks. They shoveled whatever they found into the sacks as they walked.

Eyeing them, Mark wondered what the ferals were gathering, but his attention was soon stolen by a group passing through. They paused to speak to the gathering ferals, who pointed south past the fort.

More ferals are leaving.

He scanned the group of about a dozen as they shifted through the forest. It was the third group he had seen heading south in the last couple of days.

As they stepped out of view, his gaze drifted to the ferals as the hunched figures returned to their huts. He spotted them pull mushrooms and what looked like pieces of bark from the bag.

What is that?

“The hard work has been good training. Not to mention the callouses. They are constantly complaining about bloody hands. If I had known they were this weak,” Henric said, appearing at Mark’s side.

“What is that,” Mark pointed toward the pieces of bark the ferals were piling on a cloth.

“You got a sudden interest in the local infestation?”

“It’s important. Just answer the question.”

Henric bit his tongue and shifted his gaze toward the ferals, “Rigar bark. I believe they boil it. And once it’s soft, mash it up into a paste and cook it again. I’ve heard it tastes bitter. They use it to soak up soups. Apparently, it’s not bad for that. Takes in the flavor. If you trust a feral, that is.”

Interesting. It sounds like a carbohydrate.

“And there’s a lot of this rigar bark around here?”

“Huh? I mean, sure, I guess. The ferals sure eat a lot of it.”

“And why aren’t we, arms master?”

“What do you mean, Imperator?”

“Why aren’t we eating this rigar bark?”

“It’s feral food. I’ve never heard of an Imperial eating rigar bark, and I have been stationed in the frontiers for a decade now.”

“Right. But besides being feral food, are there any health issues with it? I’m not going to give my acolytes diarrhea by feeding it to them, am I?”

“No. But Imperator, be reasonable. Even the lowest-born acolytes will take offense at being fed barbarian scraps. It’ll sow discontent in the fort.”

“Starving to death during the winter will sow discontent in the fort, Henric. Some things are more important than pride.”

“Imperator–”

“I’ve heard enough,” Mark raised a hand. “It looks like they need a hand,” he added, pointing toward several acolytes as they struggled to raise a spiked log.

“Hey! What did I say about applying equal torque from both sides?” Henric shouted and ran toward the impending disaster as the log swayed on the rope's end.

I’ll need to figure out how to collect this rigar bark without annoying everyone.

He didn’t want to get overexcited, but eyeing the ferals as they continued to pull the bark from their sacks, piling it onto what now was a large stack beside the hut, gave Mark hope that he could, relatively easily, solve the food stockpile problem.

**Mira**

Three ferals carrying bags surrounded Mira at the rear of the fort.

Blonde braids bordered the healer's long hair. Her pale, delicate hands shuffled through her pouch, producing three bottles of clear rum.

“As agreed,” she said, retrieving the bottles and lining them on the ground.

“It's good stuff?” One of the feral said, twisting its head as it craned toward the bottles.

“Yes, as always. Now, the herbs you promised.”

“Show ‘er the gear,” he jerked his head, and the other ferals dropped the bags of herbs at her feet and loosened their ties. “Take a gander. They're all in there for ya.”

“No merchant's bane?” Mira said as she shuffled through the bags.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“Miss, c’mon. Frost's already taken ‘em. You'll be waitin’ months for freshies, assuming you make it that long. We did what we could, as agreed.”

“Fine,” Mira rose, brushing her hands. “It's a deal. Same time next month?”

“Hah, not a chance,” the feral said, and the other two chuckled.

“What's so funny?”

“We’re moving on, Star Maiden. Down south and then out east. Safer that way.”

“Out east?”

“Aye,” one of the other ferals excitedly nodded. “Bunch of clans joining up. The cultists spooked them; they did.”

“What he said. Every fella knows the cultists be gathering. And not just that. People been spotting more wargs every day. Outside of them mountains, too. And other things. Some say trolls and giants if you believe the tales comin’ from up there.”

“And do you believe these tales?”

“Would’ve said nah–if ye'd asked me a couple weeks back. But decent fellas been sayin’ troubling things. And not just them mad types, either. Somethin’ off,” the feral said with a pointed chin.

“These decent fellas, as you put it. Have they seen these trolls and giants with their own eyes? Or are they just repeating rumors?”

“They–well, they be repeatin’ the words of mountain fellas. But–but, even Weedy Eye says he's got it on good account. And I ain’t ever heard Weedy Eye to be tellin’ dodgy yarns.”

“Right. Well, thanks for the herbs,” Mira said, throwing the sacks over her shoulder. “For what it’s worth, It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“The feels are mutual,” the feral smiled yellow teeth as he greedily stroked one of the rum bottles.

Turning before the fort, Mira watched the ferals disappear into the surrounding woodlands. An uneasiness stirred within.

***

“That’s what they told you?”

“To the word,” Mira said, ducking beneath a line of hanging herbs as she added more to the drying strings along the cabin’s ceiling.

“And you’re worried about what a few ferals say? You know their kind. They share all kinds of tales. Those yarn–weavers, they get drunk on your rum and smoke that awful herb and start yapping all kinds of nonsense. Hardly reliable sources.”

“I’ve been trading with those three for going on nine months, and not once have I seen them this worked up. Even if tales of trolls and giants are made up, something is happening, Erald.”

“If you say so,” the apprentice healer said as he kneaded a mixture of herbs with a mortar and pestle.

“Besides, wargs are bad enough, aren’t they?” Mira said, crossing the room to stoke the fire.

“Damned cultists—mingling with beasts. Master Mira, Is it true the wargs are born from virgins the cultists give to wolves? I heard they kidnap young, virgin girls and give them as wives to the beasts. A bardsinger back in Haelsreach said so. He said he even hiked the Daggers themselves.”

“I wouldn’t put too much weight on the words of bardsingers back in the Imperium. They’ll sing you whatever tale they think will earn them a few crowns.”

“So, you don’t think it’s true?”

“I’ve no idea, Erald. Never been to the Daggers, nor have I heard of any Imperial making the journey in the last three hundred years—at least not any whose words I’d trust. Besides, when they say virgins, they mean beautiful, young maidens, not little boys with puckered-up behinds. So you can rest your mind.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Erald’s face reddened.

**Imperator**

Determined to learn as much about the frontiers and the Imperium as he could, Mark flicked through the journals left behind by Atlas.

He learned that the miasma that took Atlas’s life hung over the region, along the mountain range, separating the Imperium from the frontiers—creating a natural barrier between the two.

Several months ago, Atlas had ventured into the region. Based on the notes he left behind, he had searched for something called an Imperator Throne Ship. Mark searched the pages for details, hoping to find an explanation of what exactly a Throne Ship was, but found nothing. Clearly, Atlas didn’t need any help reminding himself. He had left a few scribbled notes about how it could assist in supplying Fort Winterclaw through the winter. And apparently, those who had spotted it, reported it as undamaged and abandoned.

Sighing, Mark spun in his chair. It didn’t matter if he didn’t know what an Imperator Throne Ship was; if it could help them survive winter, he would need to at least consider trying to retrieve it.

Dying a second time doesn’t sound too fun.

He stared up at the timber log ceiling. He might have taken Atlas’s body, but he doubted he was even half the Imperator his predecessor was, and the miasma had gotten him.

One step at a time, Mark. If it’s so dangerous, it probably isn’t going anywhere.

He needed a win. But this wasn’t it. Not now, at least.

***

“Mira, Mira, call Mira!” Came Callum’s panicked cry from the gates as Mark stepped out of his cabin.

He led two acolytes as they carried a third over their shoulders—his robes were torn, and blood-streaked freely down the acolyte’s leg, staining his robe red.

“What happened to him?”

“One of those damn ferals attacked him, Imperator.”

Holding her robes up past her ankles, Mira appeared from her cabin.

“Star Maiden, one of the ferals attacked him with an axe.”

“Inside, place him on the table,” she ordered, standing aside as the acolytes carried him into the cabin.

“Is he going to be okay?” Mark asked, following the acolytes.

“We'll find out shortly, Imperator,” Mira said with a pointed look and followed the acolytes into her cabin.

Pulling the teen’s robe back, the acolytes exposed a deep wound across the kid's thigh, the white of bone visible behind the torn flesh.

Mark swallowed at the grisly scene in an attempt to hold back his discomfort. He doubted Atlas would have squirmed at the sight of a wound like this.

“Rum,” Mira said, and her apprentice handed her the bottle. “Here, drink this—it’ll help,” she added, pouring a cup.

Trembling, the acolyte's stubby, freckled fingers took the cup. He locked eyes with Mira, who nodded as he brought it to his lips.

“Go on. In one.”

Gulping it down, the boy winced up and squeezed his eyes shut, and Mira shoved a rag into his mouth as her apprentice handed her the fire stoker.

The rag muffled the scream as the boy shook against the acolytes holding him down.

“Done,” Mira said, removing the iron from the cauterized wound as the smell of cooked flesh assaulted them.

Sweat dripped from the boy's brow, and his pale skin lost what little color it had as his thrashing weakened.

“Sorry, can't risk getting sick out here,” Mira said, placing the back of her hand on his forehead.

“Will Dober be okay?” A girl with scruffy brown hair said, tightly holding the boy’s damp hand.

“Should be. But he'll have to take it easy for a while. And make sure he gets lots of fluids.”

“Hear that, Dober? You're going to be fine,” the girl said, staring down at the ghostly boy.

Dober moaned as Mira removed the gag, “I'll mix you up something for the pain and a little something to boost your strength, okay? But for now, help him back to his cabin. He needs rest.”

The Acolytes nodded and helped Dober up—causing him to cry in pain.

Mark eyed the healer. Her techniques seemed primitive, but he didn't know what else he had expected. At least this woman seemed to care about what she was doing. But the thought of getting caught at the end of her iron instilled a fresh sense of terror.

Note to self: don’t get wounded.

“You’re still here. That’s unlike you, Imperator. Can I help?”

“No. I just came to make sure the boy was alright.”

“The boy?” she said, a faint crease crinkled the middle of her brow. “You’re starting to worry me, Imperator.”

Atlas was a bit of an a-hole, wasn’t he?

“Every set of arms counts,” Mark said, turning for the exit. He figured that keeping up appearances was important. He would ease them into his more caring version of Atlas the Imperator.