The Chronicle of Achren 'Draugr' by Michael J Dennis

Author:Michael J Dennis
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, The Undead, Horror, Historical, Kent, Achren, The Chronicle of Achren, Almund Penny, Young Adult
Publisher: Michael J Dennis
Published: 2019-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The Village

The next morning, they were up packed and ready as the sun drove away the darkness. Lined up two abreast, they began the process of winding their way onto the narrow track that meandered up the slope towards the dark tree line.

Pushing their way into the overgrown mess of green that was the forest, progress was slow each man conscious of his lifeblood as the sound of his heart hammered in his ears as he strained to hear anything beyond this silence. The path was narrow and Almund heard many a curse as men stubbed toes or tripped on any of the many roots that crossed the path.

‘Don’t forget to listen out for bears, Seeker.’

‘Bears?’ Almund looked back at Kipp where he walked beside Smith. ‘Are many seen in these parts?’

‘Oh! Yes. They seem to leave us alone though that is unless it’s mating time or before hibernation. Then they turn mean.’

Oh! Bollocks, that’s all we need, Almund thought. With no place to stop they pushed on throughout the day, he looked up noticing the sun had dipped below the canopy above. ‘We can’t have far to go now, can we?’

‘No,’ Kipp answered. ‘Not far we’ll pass the outer fence around the next turn.’ The boy went to push forward, but Almund held his arm.

‘We’ll better go in first. Stay back with Smith and the healer.’ Almund turned and whispered. ‘Torr, Stuart, on me in front. Everyone! leave your kit. Spears, swords, and shields ready.’

‘Ready.’ Almund whispered. The men nodded as he set off, his staff in his left hand, a sword in his right, its edge, and point sharpened and deadly. Torr and Stuart flanked him while the rest followed behind, Kipp and Paige towards the middle.

The first thing Almund noticed was the faint smell of charring mingled with the damp autumn leaves and that of sickly-sweet putrefaction. Not over cloying but enough to sharpen his sense’s. In the cool of the late afternoon, his woollen tunic felt heavy as sweat trickled down his back. Coming up to the heavy gates broken and swinging at odd angles that led into the village, he held his hand up to stop.

The silence was unnerving.

As if the forest held its breath, no living thing moved, not even birdsong in the high canopy broke the silence. Almund stepped beneath the village gate, the empty eye sockets of a Rams skull watching him as he entered.

He counted at least twenty small dwellings some rectangular, others old traditional round-houses and the hall, all thatched, sat upon this large clearing with its protective fence. At its centre the village well. All about, debris scattered, broken buckets, pots, and tables, emptied chests, everything that told you a raiding party had sacked the place, but then Almund remembered the yellowing murderous eyes of Kipp’s uncle and knew this was no raiding party.

‘Fan out!’ he called back. ‘Look for any sign of survivors, call out if you see any tracks, anything.’ The men circled around in either direction, shields up to deflect any rushing attack, spear at the ready.

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