Metrics Of Ragnarok

Plantation

He didn't smell blood in an ominous sense, or due to his belief that someone or something had died somewhere close...he actually smelled blood.

But it could just have been the boar that the kingdom guards had caught. Though he didn't buy that.

He sighed and cleared his mind of the thought as he ran down.

If someone had been looking from afar, they would have seen two shadows moving at pace with the wind. One dimly lit, and the other following the path of the first.

The plantation was close to the station, and since cargo concerning its upkeep usually came in through there, its location had been a matter of convenience.

Matthew and the other Xhosa member reached the walls confining it soon after they set out with blitzing speed.

The first thing that caught his attention was the smell of more blood. And truly, smeared along the wall were valleys of cold red blood.

Most of it had dried, but by the looks of things, the being that had been slain to produce this was slain quite recently.

Matthew winced. He had nothing against murder, but this was just wrong. Whatever had killed what should have just burned the bodies and kept their living space less unattractive.

Speaking of what had killed what, they both knew that no daemon could have done this, at least not this way, not to mark territory. So these murders must have been committed by the most vile of beings– well, second most vile.

A human.

So definitely this had been where the crew had stayed. They had probably been killed so their items could be repossessed. He would know; he usually did such.

Now they would need a better plan, because they were no longer dealing with mindless brutes, and they were now planning to attack and not just observe.

But Matthew disliked bulky plans. Just something simple, hence what he had said earlier before they left:

"We get there, get in, observe, and get out with what we know."

But he didn't worry too much. The only difference now would be that they would have to make room for the inclusion of soon-to-be dead people.

Matthew stared at his colleague. "Remember, when you get in, watch and take it slow. We may be skilled, but there's only so much two men can do."

The Xhosa nodded, mistakenly tearing the weak rope he had used to tie his hair. Huffing, he pulled it back and tied it into a knot.

Then they moved.

The wall was taller than ten feet, but a good run-up was enough for them to quickly scale it.

They landed silently on the other side, because luckily, the scattered twigs weren't hugging the walls.

They stepped into the bushes in the same landing motion. The plantation had no buildings, so they could clearly see the fire glowing deeper in, surrounded by about two and a half dozen shadows.

Mercenaries.

The people had broken apart the crates and taken the handcrafted bullets–well, all bullets were handcrafted– and inserted them into their crude guns.

Matthew gritted his teeth. These people were so selfish, taking what was to be used to protect a kingdom full of the helpless, to brandish in remote places, just for fulfillment.

And worse of all, he saw what they were dumping along the walls...the remains of the crew.

"To hell with it, let's just slaughter them all."

Using simple and oddly cringe sign language, he told the other Xhosa to go left, and he took right.

By sunrise, they had to have this place cleared of interference.

Matthew jumped between the shadows of the trees, but doing that, even in a plantation, was hard, because most of the present plants and crops– which seemed to be just palm trees and a cover crop he didn't know– were dried up and beaten down by the intense weather.

The weather had stopped snowing, reason why the fire was able to stay burning, but also why he was comfortable staying out without a coat or sweater.

Soon, he got busy.

With superior skill and the element of surprise, he dispatched...two people before he was noticed.

Surprisingly!

The third guy seemed to hear differences in the wind, and sensed Matthew the moment he came round the corner.

Luckily, he couldn't do anything about it before the other Xhosa flashed by, with a clean strike across his neck.

Matthew wasn't Atlas, so he didn't banter about why the Xhosa member didn't obey his directives; after all, he was a master sergeant. Instead, he was just thankful.

They bent down and stared at the head that rolled away from the body. It looked weird.

Eerie even.

It was like an evolutionary crossbreed between a hairy wolf and a lanky man. Flaps of skin draped down, but this seemed to be a new feature added upon its death.

They winced, then grimaced as they stared, eventually being unable to look any longer. It seemed like whatever magic or power had been used to make this man like this had come undone as the man died, and as it came undone, it reacted to the world in special ways that eroded the minds of onlookers.

The other Xhosa turned to Matthew.

This was a new entry in the book, and they hadn't accounted for this.

Matthew understood, but he didn't intend to retreat. All they needed to do was send a messenger hawk to Atlas, so if they failed, he would know the outcome, and that would be done by the other Xhosa intuitively, even if the writer wouldn't know all the details.

The Xhosa member frowned, then picked up the gun that the man had been holding, then aimed.

The bullets were kingdom property, but no one would blame him for wasting a few bullets.

Matthew set three fingers up. Then dropped it to two, and then one...

And then...

***

"Atlas, I'm writing this to you with the last of my breath... that I take of my own will.

I'm not sorry for what has happened, because it has happened to you too, but I'm begging that the way your loved ones were protected when we were damned, mine would be too.

My pupil, Napoleon, most of all."

Atlas read it with the expression of someone who had just swallowed shit.

This was just too early. He didn't need this kind of thing on his conscience to disturb his sleep, especially when he had gotten such a comfy bed!

But it was nice to know.

Nice to know that as of now, under a patch of dark clouds, in a frosty castle made of rotting flesh, there lived a corrupted devil, who for some reason had written to him half-lovingly as a deranged neighborhood...