Chapter 313 The Wake
I found them, Mortarion thought, sullenly wiping his scythe on a coarse linen cloth for the seventh time. Or maybe they found me.
He sat in the middle of a pile of hay that had become slightly damp due to light rain, waiting for it to get later, and he would try to light the firewood brought to him by the villagers to make the stewed gray food more delicious. Soft, warm and easy to drink.
Mortarion is a little hesitant to light a fire now. The fire will remind him of the golden fire that lit up his eyes when he met the two extraterrestrial visitors that day.
This small village, Heller's Pass, is still within the influence of the sorcerer overlord Nakre, but close enough to the edge to stay out of sight of the Plague Eagle.
The air here is relatively clean and there are houses, barns, mills and streams. There are about two hundred residents living in the village, carefully planting the wheat fields here, and cultivating their lives day after day.
He was received by the villagers outside the Chaimen of the village. When asked about his identity, he honestly told himself that he was an experimental subject of Nakre.
This brought a lot of fear to the villagers - not to mention that some people actually recognized him. His tall and thin body and pale face proved that he was the rumored witchcraft overlord. That lackey.
Mortarion accepted people's questions calmly and even nostalgically. When he entered the small village where he first lived, he received almost the same cross-examination.
However, the people there still chose to give Barbarus the remaining tenderness to him until they died because of him.
When the villagers hesitated, a young man persuaded the villagers to accept him.
"He has been escaping for so long," the young man said, "the overlord may have given up looking for him. And he is so big that one person can cut the wheat for five people."
< br>So, he and Karas Typhon were assigned to the same residence - a stable located on the outside of the village.
The stables have been abandoned, and all that remains inside are traces of the creatures that once lived. Perhaps the creatures that the villagers had raised here had all died, or people could no longer afford the expense of feeding too many living creatures.
Privately, Mortarion hoped that the livestock here had just been moved to the edge of another farmland and lived in another place.
Mortarion lowered the wiped scythe. It was time for him to replace his scythe. This tool was showing serious wear and tear. He wasn't sure where he would find a second scythe that fit his size.
The scythe's blade collided with the ground, making a dull and hollow sound, which briefly coincided with Mortarion's heartbeat.
Mortarion looked out from the open door of the stable. In the distance that mortals could not see, in the mist under the hillside, he knew that the Emperor and the Wizard of Man were there, waiting silently. .
What can he give them? he thought.
"What's wrong?" The young man standing at the door asked him in confusion. Karas Typhon was standing where his gaze passed, and Mortarion realized that he had just been staring at the young man for a long time.
The weak sun during the day finally withdrew its last ray of light harshly, and Karas returned to the stable.
He looked at the untouched dry firewood on the ground, confused for a moment, and then said understandingly: "I will do it today. I will teach you how to make a fire tomorrow, Mortarion."< br>
This misunderstanding gave Mortarion a blushing embarrassment out of thin air, although nothing could be seen on his pale skin.
"I'll do it." He muttered, moved to the fire pit, and easily rubbed out sparks with a flint. The kindling under the firewood began to emit green smoke. Soon, golden flames rose up and played with the edges of the wood.
Karas placed the pot of vegetable porridge on the iron stand, letting the heat waves brought by the flames lick the bottom of the clay pot. Soon after, it became warmer inside the stable, and the porridge and soup in the pot gently bubbled out gray and white bubbles. Karas filled a bowl for himself, filled a bowl with porridge, and handed it to Mortarion across the fire pit.
A rhythmic, undulating tone floated faintly from the center of the Heller Pass, like thick fog that condensed into water droplets and dripped on the surface of the iron piece by piece, unconstrained by the rules of language.
Mortarion turned his head following the direction of the sound: "What is that?"
Karas almost choked on the porridge. "That's singing. Haven't you heard it?"
Mortarion drank his porridge in one gulp. He drank quickly and could eat more. But even if the Primarch eats less, the price he will bear will be much lighter than that of a mortal. Therefore, he did not serve the second bowl.
“No,” he said.
"Incredible." Karas shrugged his shoulders, "Even if the Overlord doesn't sing, doesn't he still listen to songs?"
"There is only noise there." Mortarion replied immediately, his voice cold.
Karas burst out laughing and almost coughed out the porridge in his mouth. A few tangled grasses growing there at the damp bottom of the stable wall suddenly withered.
Karas Typhon glanced at the corner and explained nonchalantly: "I have half the dirty blood of the Overlord in my veins. In the village where I was born, they drowned my mother for this. After that I Came here. "
If it were normal, Mortarion would have scolded the other party and warned the pale young man not to be disturbed by evil witchcraft. But at this time, he violated the regulations he set for himself.
"What happened?" asked the Primarch.
Karas spat and said roughly, "She is so beautiful."
Mortarion thought about what he should say.
"This is not your fault," he said, "but the fault of the evil rulers. They imposed violence and power on the Barbarus people, but you did not have enough strength to resist."
"Who doesn't understand this? But the villagers can only think that she is a witch."
Karas picked up a thin iron stick and stirred the firewood in the fire pit, allowing the flames to burst out more vigorously.
The horn of sunset sounded, and the torches around the village were lit one by one to ward off witchcraft ghosts in the mist.
The last group of villagers shuffled back from the wheat fields. Their state was numb and depressed, no one spoke, only the footsteps sounded chaotically outside the stable, full of hasty worries.
Some of them will go to a small gathering in the center of the village, while others will go directly back to their families. They will slowly relax, and they may even laugh.
The Emperor's words echoed in Mortarion's ears. Do you want to kill more, the Lord of Mankind asked him.
"What if I kill him?" Mortarion suddenly said, "Kill those overlords?"
Karas's expression froze. He waited for three seconds before confirming that Mortarion was not joking. .
"For a long time," the young man said, staring at Mortarion, "for a long time, the world has been like this. Some challenged it, but they all lost."
Mortarion No answer.
Callas Typhon moved closer, testing his attitude with suspicion and hidden expectation.
"As long as you are willing, with your abilities, you and I can easily survive on Barbarus. But resist? No, Mortarion, those who resist will die."
Mortarion He looked at the stable door. When Karas walked in, he closed the rickety wooden door to keep out the fog and cold at night. And Mortarion knew that deep in the mist of the mountains where the chemical concentration was too high, the Emperor and the Wizard were there, and they seemed to want nothing but his change of heart.
A general. A leader. An executioner for witchcraft. An exterminator of unshakable oppressive regimes.
"The meaning of Mortarion is the son of death." He said.
Karas opened his mouth, but still didn't say anything. He looked left and right, then stood up and came to Mortarion's side, close to the Primarch's ear.
"I believe you." He whispered softly.
Mortarion put down the bowl and followed Karas Typhon's method, loosening the gaps between the pine logs to allow the flames to burn brighter.
"When will farming begin tomorrow?" asked the Primarch.
Karas returned to his haystack, which was covered with two layers of linen, half leaning on it.
"I just came to Heller's Pass not long ago. All I know is that after the morning bugle sounded, everyone went to work in the fields one after another. Why, you want to go too?"
Mortarion nodded, He took his scythe and placed it beside the haystack, then lay down in the thick haystack, preparing to go to bed early. During his journey across the plains of Barbarus, he never closed his eyes for a moment.
The hay beneath him did not sting his skin at all, it merely traced and reminded him of the scars on his back. This is the shame left behind by the overlords of witchcraft.
Mortarion turned sideways and gradually fell asleep.
Callas Typhon tended the fire for a while, having nothing to do at night, as fog and dark clouds locked the sky, blocking the light of the stars from the atmosphere. After some time, he also fell asleep.
——
Mortarion was awakened by a magical telepathic communication that sounded directly in his brain. He turned over, grabbed the scythe and bounced up, his head almost hitting the top of the stable. After a moment of reaction, he realized that he was stepping on real ground.
+If you don't want to spend your first morning in the village with corpses slain by voodoo golems all over the place, you'd better stay awake, Mortarion. +
A sharp needle, like a thin needle, pierced his nerves. Mortarion pressed his forehead, enduring the heaviness of his limbs and the fatigue of his brain. The feeling of being forced out of sleep was terrible, especially since this was the first chance to rest in more than ten days.
Beside him, Karas Typhon was half asleep: "...What?"
"It's okay." Mortarion whispered, picked up the scythe, pushed open the stable door, held one of the two torches at the door, and glanced at the dark fog in the middle of the night.
A strange coldness swept across his cheeks in the silence. He steadied the sickle with his feet, and with his free hand, he grabbed the black hair soaked in cold sweat on both sides of his forehead.
Morse was right. Something is happening in the dark.
+Go to the Mill, Mortarion. +The wizard next to the Emperor continued to say to him, +What do you call a corpse puppet that is controlled by psychic energy? It's those things. +
Mortarion looked to the other side of the village, across the wheat fields. The late night shadows were blurred in the mist, and the outline of the mill and windmill was difficult to make out. The night is like a deep muddy pool, submerging Barbarus's lower world coldly and cruelly.
The cold wind gradually intensified, and the howling of ghosts could be heard in the middle of the night. Outside the small area that could be illuminated by asphalt torches, a dangerous fog was swirling. Some small chewing, scratching and eerie laughter echoed outside the village, eagerly waiting for the fruits of the hunt.
Mortarion noted the direction of the mill and ran through the thick fog at night. He walked like the wind, quietly walking through the sleeping village, and headed towards the windmill alone under the light of the torch that flickered on and off.
As he approached, the outline of the windmill gradually emerged in the late night. The three huge windmill blades stretched out like giant arms. Opposite the mill, in the rough sentry tower of the village, the bright yellow light of the night watch was still there. Ignorantly lighting up, unaware of the danger.
The fire in Mortarion's hand attracted the attention of the sleepy Night's Watch. "Foreigner," the Night's Watch shouted, "What are you doing here? It's night now, don't go out!"
Mortarion did not answer, quietly distinguishing the blurry figures in the thick fog that gathered. He smelled the chemicals of voodoo golems, mindless biological constructs that learned to stop roaring at night.
They are stupid and clumsy, but powerful and fast. The most important thing is that they cost nothing to build, and Barbarus has no shortage of corpses.
He crossed the scythe, positioning it deftly into a battle stance, just as he had been forced to fight for Nak'rai before, as the Overlord's most useful killer.
But this time, he volunteered to fight for humanity.
+Well, maybe it’s good news. That’s not Nacre’s army. Who knows which witchcraft overlord suddenly had a whim and wanted to have a night hunt... But that doesn’t mean they are easy to deal with. + Morse reminder.
I understand. Mortarion thought to himself, knowing that he had not caused the disaster to the village.
In addition, he can sense the chain of witchcraft messages that connects his mind with the black-robed wizard in the mountain valley.
No need to study, he already understands how to operate short-distance psychic communication. But he resisted sending a word back.
Mortarion dropped the torch, and the fire died in the mire. Then comes the fight.
He wielded his scythe, supplemented by his hard fists, destroying the puppets one after another, turning them back into completely rotten corpses. He killed the first batch of invaders like a whirlwind, the sickle easily tearing apart pieces of flesh and blood, driving gusts of bloody wind, as if he was skillfully clearing weeds in a wheat field.
Crush. Cut off. Chop into pieces. There is no mercy in death. The shadows moved endlessly, each corpse turned into trampled mud, and the yellowed bones sank in the thick foggy night. Occasionally, a splash of viscous and putrid liquid splashed into Mortarion's face, and more foul blood spurted onto his arms, torso, and feet.
There are also beasts, transformed by witchcraft, with swollen hair, agile and strong. He crushed their spines with one punch. He looks haggard and can fall down with a single blow, but he can still split mountains and break rocks.
+The commander is behind the windmill, Mortarion. +
Mortarion completed this silent battle without saying a word, steadily approaching the mill and windmill, carving a dead road.
It was late at night, the fog was getting thicker and thicker, and the night was falling like dew. The green witch fire jumped and rolled in the acid, illuminating the puppet's swollen and excessive ankles and the wasteland covered with pus.
In the whispers of the dead, Mortarion harvests the decayed foes. The sound of fighting attracted the attention of the village, and more and more torches lit up dozens of meters behind him. The villagers were shocked by the battle in front of them. Their common sense of survival made them wise not to get close, but only to deliver the harvest to the reapers. My silent blessing.
Under the windmill, Mortarion caught up with the commander of the team. He did not recognize the half-human, half-alien creature, and was unwilling to listen to any word that came out of the other party's dirty mouth. After fighting all night, he had no intention of uttering more bold words.
The sword flashed, and the invader's blood soaked the black soil.
Mortarion turned around, and he was a little surprised by the number of people watching. At the close of dawn, their figures were like a piece of wheat, swaying in the dim morning light.
"It's over." He said firmly, "It's a raiding party."
Karas Typhon squeezed through the crowd, and there was no doubt about the sincerity of his excitement at this moment.
"You saved us, Mortarion!" he shouted.
"Yes..." Mortarion was just thinking about whether to tell the existence of the Emperor and Mors, when the wizard's psychic communication suddenly and actively terminated, leaving no trace behind. Like they did nothing.
He composed himself and accepted the gift in silence.
"But the danger is not over," said the Primarch, "the battle between the Barbarus and the sorcerous overlords has only just begun."
(End of Chapter)