The best thing about zombies is they are not very fast, so Raylas did not have to run to keep away from them. The worst part is Zombies did not have to sleep, and they were persistent. Unless you gave them food to distract them they’d keep following their prey until it was killed.

Raylas hiked at a decent pace. Nothing taxing, but it also was not an impressive speed. It would be another few hours before he’d reach the fort but he was already running on reserve energy after his fight the night before.

He did find a creek to get some water, though, and inside the captain’s pack was a water bag. So despite feeling tired he felt refreshed.

After he left the campsite he rushed for around a mile to create some breathing room between him and the horde. He paused just long enough to check inside the pack and remove unneeded items. There were some changes of clothes which were close to his size, so he kept those. And there was also a nice blanket inside the pack which the Captain thankfully did not take out yet. Besides those there were a few useless items which Raylas did not have the courage to throw out.

The metal tipped pen, for one, as well as ink. Both of those would be worth at least six silver combined, so if he threw them away he would never be able to face the Captain again. There was also a book which Raylas assumed to be the Captain’s journal. Leaders liked to keep journals, so him having one made sense. He flipped through it to see if there was anything interesting, but it was nothing but squiggles and words. As such it was stored next to the other useless things.

Raylas threw on the cloak and pack, tying the Captain’s pack onto the button of the frame. It was a little large, but it held almost everything he would need for his immediate survival.

After getting comfortable Raylas started to experiment with his weapon. It did not move correctly. He could feel how it should move, and he did it last night, but during the battle it was like the dagger had a mind of its own.

So Raylas practiced as he walked. He enjoyed the repetitive movements of practice, as it helped him focus on what was important. He was a warrior and only knew how to fight. Each movement he made should be like one of those books, where you could read into them and pull out useful info on how to kill your enemy. Why should he learn to read when his movements tell more than any writing ever could?

He remembered how he moved during the fight the night before. He was a whirlwind of burning, crushing, and slicing his enemies. He pierced through their hearts with the blade, snapped their shins with the weight, and tripped them with the chain. Every piece worked together for perfect crowd control when outnumbered, and while his attacks might not do a lot of damage they stacked up quickly to become a storm of death.

So why didn’t it feel like that again now? He swung the dagger in the air and it flew around, but the control he felt before was missing. It was wild and untamed. He shortened the chain and tried it again. It felt better, but now the enemy would be closer.

He pulled in the blade and swung the weight. It felt better than the blade, but it still felt off. The weight moved close to how he wanted but the flexibility he had yesterday was gone. It was like changing from a sword to a hammer.

Raylas pondered and experimented as the hours passed, but all too soon he had to stop due to fatigue. His muscles screamed for him to rest, but he couldn’t. Not yet. Not until he got to the Fort and built some fortifications to funnel the zombies in. He was crippled without his weapon, but even without it he could bash them with his fists. But to take them all on again in an open space like before was suicide.

The sun rose high into the sky. The bare trees helped remove any deep shadows and opened his view to see deep into the woods. There were a few unusual things which he realized he didn't see when they were marching forward earlier. A mound seemed to pop out once in a while and half swallow a tree, and a number of trunks had scratches which appeared to look like antler scratches but it wasn’t the season for it.

There were intelligent creatures in the forest which were not human. The mounds might be nesting for them, perhaps the wolves which attacked them. It could be a home of badgers or a hideaway for goblins or imps. The scratches, though, dispelled most of the stupid creatures. Once was close to the road and was obviously done by clawed hands.

A territory marking. Goblins or imps were the most likely culprit due to the height they were scratched. He would have to keep an extra watch during the night and keep fires to a minimum to avoid attracting attention.

He thought back to the night, not about the fight, but about the flame. What was that thing?

Nothing in any of the stories he heard ever spoke of a talking flame. One of pure white which did not radiate heat. He did not have the best view of it through the zombies, but what he did see made him feel small. There was a power pulsing around it while it looked down at him. His mind felt the crushing weight of will it possessed when it spoke.

It was almost like talking to a god.

He stifled a laugh. The gods had abandoned the world since the Cataclysm. Maybe even before the Cataclysm. Why would one appear before scum like him?

Did he think he was a hero or something?

Raylas couldn’t hold in his mirth as he burst out laughing. It was like a childhood game where you pretended you were the ‘chosen one’ or some such garbage. The churches coming together to ordain you a hero, a person of myth and legend.

Why would anyone even want to be a hero? Where was the benefit for fighting monsters and demons until you died? More like being ordained to be a sacrifice so people can shove their problems onto you and not grow stronger to take care of themselves.

Thank the gods that there were no Heroes in today’s day and age. If there were then Raylas would be out of the job.

His mind sobered up as he recalled his resignation. He left the group, so he was technically out of the job. Not only that but there was a horde of dead following him so he might not even have long to live.

Which brings to question the other voice he heard, the feminine one. She said she’d give him the power to live, which she did. He survived the night before due to her aid, but what was she?

He doubted she was a demon coming to steal his soul. Why would she save him if she wanted to kill him? Maybe make him her slave, but then where was she? He was wandering out in the remote no-wheres trying to keep ahead of doom. If she wanted him to swear his soul to her then shouldn’t she have shown herself to be his savior?

No, there was something else at play here.

He pulled out the small bag and ring. Whatever happened had to do with these. He had no idea what they were but the Captain said they were artifacts which were bound to him. There was no escaping these now except through an extreme amount of luck or death. He couldn’t even throw them away because the artifact was needed if he were to run into an Archpriest so they could break the curse.

He stared at them. He tried to understand the stitching, or even why the bag refused to open. Who knows what else it holds? The bag felt full, so it probably was filled with jewels and other valuables. Raylas’ eyes filled with greed as he imagined a bag full of large gems like the ones he found in the merchant's chest.

The bag and ring were caked in gore and dirt from when they fell onto the ground. Raylas scraped it off the bag until its black material seemed to shimmer in the light. Nothing seemed to stick to it as he worked, so it appeared pristine once it was done. It must be a very high grade material. Not even cotton cleaned this easily, so was it the rumored silk?

He stored the bag away and started to clean off the ring. He rubbed the band and the dirt fell off easily as well. He then started rubbing the blue stone at the top as well.

[You called, my master?]

Raylas jumped at the woman’s voice and nearly dropped the ring.

“Who are you?” he demanded as he looked around. “Where are you? Show yourself.”

He stored the ring away and pulled out the dagger. He slowly spun around, scanning his surroundings for anything suspicious.

A mist flew out of the pouch he stored the ring into and gathered in front of him. Raylas leapt back and held the dagger out, ready to fight whatever creature was appearing. He scanned the roads to see if there was cover for him to run to, but the road was cleared and who knows what hid in the woods.

The mist condensed to reveal a woman. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail like how Goodwill wore, but it sparkled like the blue gem on the ring, and she wore barely any clothes. Her breasts were covered by a mere cloth and her nethers were likewise covered by just a slip of fabric. There was loose fabric that went down her legs like pants, but they were transparent so what was the point of wearing them? Even her feet only wore slippers.

“It is a pleasure to stand before you, master,” she said as she gave a polite curtsy.

“Begone, succubi!” Raylas roared as he raised the dagger between them. “You will not steal my soul, no matter how much you try to seduce me.”