How long might it be ‘til the arrival of the horde? It was barely morning when the barge ground against the wooden pier, the snow-mounds shimmered in the first, orange rays of the day when he made landfall again, finding the mooring suspiciously empty.

Had they all fled? A commotion somewhere among the handful of hovels that made up the core of Gostahof convinced him otherwise.

“Soon it’ll be as it should and we’ll all be rid of the Count and ‘is dregs!”

Von Bolstedt couldn’t believe his eyes and ears. As he rounded a corner, he was faced with the inhabitants of Gostahof, gathered around a ramshackle podium. The centre of their attention was the Elder Staubner, the old man raving like the youngest, most damnable, student.

“Whatever this is, it ends here, Staubner!”

Adebar hadn’t even realized he’d spoken, his pistol was in his hand, pointed at the Elder. At this distance it would be sheer luck to hit him accurately, he knew.

The villagers whirled around, some shrieking in shock, others seemingly ready to reach for barely concealed arms. Damnations.

“In this very instant, there is a horde of Beastmen en route. They will come here and destroy and defile as they please, so I would advise you to hold your tongue!”

Adebar had expected shock, terror maybe, but if anything it was his turn to be taken aback. Half the villagers didn’t so much as flinch at the mention of their nearing doom, of the spawn of evil itself coming to devour them.

Staubner smiled wickedly, rubbing claw-like hands.

“The outsider speaks the truth, yes! The children of the forest are coming, friends, and through them we will live as the gods intended. No more taxes, no more nosy magistrates, no more drafts or tithes! We will be free once more!”

So that was how it was. If it hadn’t been abundantly clear before, the Elder had been in on whatever was actually going on here, a willing tool to dark forces.

It seemed the Elder had not been as successful as he’d have liked to be, however. The villagers immediately shirked away from one another. Some clapped and lauded the Elder, knelt and thanked Taal, others proved more sane, or maybe less prone to change, spitting curses and accusations at the disciples of Staubner. Von Bolstedt, for his part, couldn’t fathom how any of this had even been possible. Did Taal not have a priesthood, no strictures to watch for the taint of chaos? No Witch-hunters? Had these people’s creed failed them so, or had Fulda truly worked a vile glamour over the Elder and his supporters?

The shot rang out. By all accounts, he’d been too far away to aim accurately. Still, the Elder sagged down, collapsed onto the planks with a dull thud. All eyes were on him again, some burning with hatred, others filled with disillusioned uncertainty.

His tongue was heavy, he swallowed air that seemed very dry, trying to muster the right words.

“Those that wish to live and have no part in this vile heresy should come with me now.”

Von Bolstedt tucked the warm pistol under his belt, turning about with a last, judging glance, before purposefully striding toward Castle Gostahof. Others joined him, soon half the village was moving, under the curses and jeers of their neighbours.

“You’ll get what’s comin’ fer ya!”

Adebar had no doubt everyone would receive their share of hardship soon, but he doubted those that stayed behind would be exempt. Something in his chest told him that the villagers would soon be begging for death.