When the Gnolls Came

The first scream came before dinner. Deacon had just set his crossbow against the wall. That annoyed him later. At the time, there was no room for annoyance. Only movement. He was on his feet before the second scream. Jandar knocked over a chair. Zook was already at the door. Vegon stood too quickly and nearly caught the edge of the table. Xil turned toward the sound. Outside, someone shouted:

“Gnolls!”

Deacon stopped breathing—not long. Less than a heartbeat.

Enough.

Then he grabbed the crossbow. The room disappeared—not really. Mara’s inn was still there. Fire. Tables. The half-finished bowls. Jandar swearing as he untangled himself from the fallen chair. But something older moved underneath all of it. Howling. The memory had no shape. Deacon kept it that way.

“North side!” someone yelled outside.

He opened the door. Arrowdale had changed. People were running. A woman dragged two children between houses. The smith stood in the street holding a hammer that had never been intended for battle. A dog barked until someone pulled it indoors. Then a figure came through the mist beyond the last fence. Tall. Hunched.

Wrong.

Gnoll. Another followed. Then three more. Deacon raised the crossbow.

“Inside!” he shouted.

Nobody listened. Of course they didn’t. People rarely listened until the danger was close enough to make the order obvious. He fired. The first gnoll dropped. The bolt caught it high in the chest. It should have fallen harder. Instead it folded, stumbled, and tried to rise again. Deacon stared. Jandar came out beside him.

“Didn’t you kill that?” Jandar asked.

“I thought so,” Deacon said.

The gnoll pushed itself up. Its head lifted. One side of its face was gray—not fur. Flesh. Dead flesh. Jandar’s expression changed.

“Oh.”

Deacon fired again. The second bolt struck through the skull. This time the creature stayed down.

“Head,” Deacon said.

“What?” Jandar asked.

“Head,” Deacon repeated.

Another gnoll leapt the fence. Jandar moved. Rapier out. Fast. He drove the point into its throat. The creature snarled and grabbed for him. Jandar recoiled.

“That should have mattered,” Jandar said.

“Head!” Deacon shouted.

“I heard you.”

Jandar ducked under a claw, changed angle, and drove the rapier through the eye. The gnoll collapsed.

“Better?” Jandar asked.

“Yes,” Deacon said.

“I dislike your new rules.”

“So do I.”

More shapes appeared beyond the houses. Too many to be a wandering pack. Deacon counted six. Then nine. Then lost count because people got in the way. Zook climbed onto a rain barrel.

“East side too!” Zook shouted.

Deacon turned. Damn. They were not entering Arrowdale from one direction. They were coming around it.

“Vegon!”

The elf was already outside.

“What?” Vegon asked.

“Can you light the east lane?” Deacon asked.

Vegon looked toward it.

“I can try,” Vegon said.

Deacon hated that answer.

“Try small,” Deacon said.

Vegon glared. Then raised one hand. A pulse of light formed. It flickered. Held. Good. He sent it down the lane. The magical flare struck a gnoll near the fence and threw it backward. The spell bent strangely at the edge. Blue-violet. Like the cave. Vegon flinched but remained standing. Good enough. Xil came out last. He had Mara behind him.

“Cellar,” Xil told Mara.

“I own the building,” Mara said.

“Then preserve your investment,” Xil replied.

Mara stared. Then went. Deacon almost smiled. Almost. A gnoll crashed through a side gate. The smith swung his hammer. Too slow. The creature knocked him down. Deacon shot. The bolt entered through the temple. The gnoll dropped beside the man. Deacon reloaded while moving.

“Get up!”

The smith looked at him.

“Move!”

That worked. The man crawled toward the house. Deacon turned. Another gnoll ran directly at him. Alive. This one looked alive. Fresh blood on the muzzle. Eyes bright. Movement quick. Deacon raised the crossbow. Too close. The gnoll struck the weapon aside. Pain jarred through his hands. The old anger came up fast. Too fast. He drew the short blade from his belt. The gnoll laughed—not like a man—not like an animal. Something in between. Deacon’s vision narrowed.

For one terrible instant, all he could see was teeth. He stepped forward. The gnoll swung. Deacon took the hit on his shoulder and drove the blade into its ribs. Once. Twice. Again. The creature staggered. Deacon struck again. Harder. The gnoll fell. He kept going.

“Deacon,” Jandar said.

He heard the voice. Did not stop.

“Deacon,” Jandar repeated.

A hand caught his arm. Jandar. Deacon turned on him. Jandar did not move away.

“It’s dead,” Jandar said.

Deacon looked down. The gnoll lay still. Very still. His blade was buried to the hilt. Deacon pulled it free. Jandar watched him. No joke. No question. Good.

“More coming,” Deacon said.

“I know.”

They turned together. Arrowdale was becoming a battlefield—not a large one. That made it worse. There were no walls. No lines. No clean front. Gnolls ran between homes. Villagers tried to defend doorways. Animals screamed inside pens. Zook moved through the chaos low and fast, using fences and carts for cover. He shot one gnoll from behind a trough, then disappeared before another could reach him. Deacon saw him again seconds later on a roof.

“How did he get up there?” Deacon asked.

Jandar followed his gaze.

“I’ve stopped asking,” Jandar said.

A gnoll climbed after Zook. The gnome kicked it in the face. It fell backward into a cart. Deacon fired. The bolt hit its skull. Zook looked down.

“Thanks!” Zook called down.

Deacon nodded once. Then heard laughter. Wrong laughter. Gnoll laughter. From the northern lane. Three more came through. One was missing half its throat. Another had an arrow embedded in its chest. The third dragged one leg.

Dead.

Or close enough that it should have been. But they moved—not like zombies—not exactly. Too fast. Too purposeful. Jandar stared.

“They’re rotten,” Jandar said.

Deacon knew. He did not like hearing it said. Xil moved toward them.

“Something is sustaining them,” Xil said.

Deacon said, “Can you stop it?”

“Maybe,” Xil said.

“Do it,” Deacon replied.

Xil raised his holy symbol. The gnolls charged. Light gathered. The first burst went wide—not badly. But enough. The divine magic flickered and struck one creature at the shoulder instead of the chest. It staggered. Kept coming. Xil swore softly. That surprised Deacon more than the miss. Then he tried again. This time the light struck clean. The undead gnoll convulsed. Smoke rose from its fur. It collapsed. The second reached Xil. Deacon fired. The bolt hit the leg.

The gnoll stumbled. Jandar appeared from nowhere and drove his blade through the side of its head.

“Head,” Jandar said.

Deacon stared. Jandar smiled.

“I learn.”

The third gnoll turned toward a house. There were children inside. Deacon saw them at the window. Small faces. Too still. Something tore open inside him. He fired. The bolt struck the creature in the back—not enough. It kept moving.

“Zook!” Deacon shouted.

The gnome heard. He was already looking. He leapt from the roof. Straight onto the gnoll. Jandar shouted something. Deacon could not tell whether it was encouragement or profanity. Zook hit the creature high and rode it to the ground. The gnoll rolled. Zook went under. Deacon moved. Too far. Too slow. The creature raised one claw. A blast of magic hit it from the side. Vegon. The spell detonated against bone and rotten flesh.

The gnoll flew into the wall of the house. Zook rolled free. Vegon nearly fell. Xil caught him. Deacon was there a second later.

“You good?” Deacon asked.

Zook stood.

“Yep,” Zook said.

Vegon said, “No.” Deacon looked at him. The elf’s nose was bleeding again.

“Stop casting,” Deacon told Vegon.

“I just saved him,” Vegon said.

“And now stop,” Deacon replied.

Vegon glared. Deacon ignored it. A horn sounded—not from the village. From beyond it. Low. Rough. Gnoll-made. The attack changed immediately. Deacon noticed because the living gnolls changed direction—not panic. Withdrawal. That was worse. The creatures began pulling back toward the north and east. Jandar stared.

“They’re leaving,” Jandar said.

“No,” Deacon said.

Deacon reloaded.

“They’re being called,” Deacon added.

Another horn. The remaining gnolls retreated. Even wounded ones. The undead did not. Three still fought in the street. One crawled without a leg. Another had lost an arm. The third stood with half its face burned away. Xil looked sick.

“Those aren’t retreating,” Xil said.

“No,” Deacon said.

He understood. The living were being preserved. The dead were expendable.

“Finish them.”

The five moved together. No discussion. Zook took the crawling one. Jandar and Deacon handled the second. Xil destroyed the last with divine light while Vegon stood beside him doing absolutely nothing magical. For once. Then the village went quiet—not peaceful. Just empty of combat. Smoke rose from one roof. A goat wandered into the road. Someone was crying. Deacon lowered his crossbow. His hands hurt. He looked around. Bodies.

Gnolls.

Villagers. Not many villagers, thank the gods. But some. One man near the east fence. A woman beside the well. Deacon looked away. He hated himself for it. Jandar stood nearby, breathing hard. Blood on his coat—not his. Probably.

“Everyone alive?” Jandar asked.

Deacon looked at him.

“That’s a stupid question,” Deacon said.

“I meant us,” Jandar replied.

Deacon checked. Zook. Standing. Xil. Standing. Vegon. Standing. Jandar. Unfortunately standing.

“Yes.”

“Excellent.”

“There it is.”

Jandar looked at him.

“Tradition matters.”

Deacon almost laughed. Then someone screamed from the far side of the village—not fear. Grief. Different sound. Deacon knew both. He walked toward it. A man knelt beside one of the fallen villagers. Xil reached them first. He crouched. Touched the man’s neck. Nothing. The kneeling villager looked at him.

“Can you—” the kneeling villager began.

Xil’s face answered before his mouth did.

“No,” Xil said.

The man bowed his head. Deacon stopped several feet away. This was the part people forgot when they told stories. Nobody told songs about the quiet after. How everyone suddenly became aware of their own breathing. How blood looked too bright against dirt. How ordinary objects became wrong because someone had died beside them. A dropped basket. A broken cup. A shoe. Jandar came up beside him.

“Why attack here?” Jandar asked.

Deacon looked north.

“You know,” Deacon said.

“Because of us,” Jandar said.

“Maybe.”

“You hate that word too.”

“Yes.”

Jandar watched the village.

“The disappearances stopped when the first patrol arrived.”

Deacon understood. Then they followed the patrol. Now the second patrol had returned. And the gnolls came with numbers—not random—not hungry—not hunting. A response. Zook ran up from the northern edge.

“Tracks,” Zook said.

Deacon turned.

“How many?” Deacon asked.

“A lot,” Zook said.

“How many?”

Zook frowned.

“Twenty, maybe more. Some never came into town,” Zook said.

“Watching?”

“Looks like.”

That was worse. Vegon joined them with Xil.

“The undead ones carried traces of the same distortion,” Vegon said.

Deacon looked at him.

“Same as the cave?” Deacon asked.

“Yes,” Vegon said.

“The blue crystal?” Deacon asked.

Vegon hesitated.

“Related. I think,” Vegon replied.

“Think?”

“That is as far as I can go.”

Deacon accepted that. For now. Xil said, “The living ones did not feel the same.” Jandar frowned.

“So someone sends living gnolls with dead gnolls,” Jandar said.

“Looks like,” Zook said.

“Why?” Jandar asked.

Deacon looked at the bodies.

“Because dead soldiers don’t need to come home,” Deacon said.

Nobody had an answer. Mara emerged from the inn. She looked around. Her face hardened.

“You brought this,” Mara said.

Deacon expected anger. He did not blame her. Jandar opened his mouth. Deacon stopped him with a hand. Maybe because Jandar would say something wrong. Maybe because Deacon wanted this one.

“Yes,” he said.

Mara stared. The word surprised her. Probably. Deacon continued.

“Maybe not by coming here. But they were watching. The patrol mattered. We matter.”

Mara looked toward the dead.

“That supposed to help?” Mara asked.

“No,” Deacon said.

Good. Truth. He could give her that.

“We need everyone inside before dark,” Deacon said.

Mara laughed without humor.

“You think there are more?” Mara asked.

“Yes,” Deacon replied.

The village listened. That was the thing about certainty. People listened to it even when they hated what it said. Mara turned.

“Cellars first. Children and anyone hurt. Bren, get water on Tolan’s roof. Harst, move livestock into the south pens. Nobody goes beyond the last house alone.”

Deacon watched her take control. Good. He looked at Jandar. Jandar had noticed too.

“Still pretending leadership is a disease?” Jandar asked.

“Yes,” Deacon said.

“Seems contagious.”

Deacon ignored him. They spent the next hour helping Arrowdale prepare. Barricades. Watch points. Buckets. Lanterns kept low. Zook marked approaches. Jandar organized people surprisingly well—not by giving orders. By making people believe the thing he wanted them to do had been their idea. Deacon noticed. That was dangerous. Useful. Dangerous. Vegon stayed away from spells. Xil treated the wounded. Deacon checked firing lanes. Old habits. Good ones.

At the northern edge, he found three bolts from the missing patrol embedded in a fence post. Old—not from today’s attack. He pulled one free. Same make as the others. Zook came over.

“What?” Deacon asked.

Deacon showed him. Zook looked at the angle.

“Shot from inside the village,” Zook said.

“Toward north.”

“Yes.”

“So they fought here before leaving,” Deacon said.

“Maybe.”

Deacon sighed. Zook smiled.

“Now you’re using it,” Zook said.

“Go away.”

Zook laughed. Then he crouched near the fence.

“Wait.”

Deacon looked. The gnome brushed dirt aside. A set of large prints. Old. Older than today’s attack. Gnoll. Beside them, boot prints. Silver Crown. The tracks crossed. Then both went north. Deacon stared. The missing patrol had not simply followed a trail. At least one gnoll had been close enough to Arrowdale to move through the same ground. Maybe watched them. Maybe led them. He did not like that.

“Intentional,” Zook said.

“What?” Deacon asked.

“The route,” Zook said.

Deacon looked at him.

“Why?” Deacon asked.

“Tracks are too obvious here,” Zook said.

That was Zook’s language. Deacon trusted it.

“You think they wanted to be followed,” Deacon said.

“Could be.”

Deacon looked toward the hills. The anger returned. Cold this time. Better. He could use cold. Hot anger made mistakes. Cold anger remembered. A horn sounded in the distance. Very faint. Everyone in the village stopped. One note. Then silence. Jandar appeared in the lane.

“Please tell me that’s a cow,” Jandar said.

“No,” Deacon replied.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

Deacon raised his crossbow. Nothing came. No second attack. No shapes in the dark. Just the horn. A reminder. Or a message. Vegon walked up.

“They know we’re here,” Vegon said.

Deacon looked at him.

“Yes,” Deacon replied.

Xil joined them.

“What now?” Xil asked.

Deacon turned toward the village. He could see the people watching from windows. Mara near the inn. The smith with a bandaged arm. The woman whose son was missing. They had found the Silver Crown patrol. They had not found the boy. They had found gnolls. They had found walking dead. They had found a blue crystal buried in a cave that bent magic around itself. That was enough—not answers. Enough to report.

“We leave at first light,” Deacon said.

Jandar stared.

“Windmarch?” Jandar asked.

“Yes.”

Zook said, “What about the trail?”

“We come back with people who know what we’re dealing with,” Deacon said.

Jandar smiled faintly.

“Very responsible,” Jandar said.

Deacon looked at him.

“You nearly died yesterday,” Deacon reminded him.

“Temporarily,” Jandar said.

“And today we got attacked by dead gnolls,” Deacon added.

“Mostly dead,” Jandar said.

“Windmarch.”

Jandar raised his hands.

“No argument.”

That surprised Deacon. He looked at Zook. The gnome nodded. Vegon did too. Xil said, “We should tell them everything.”

“Yes.”

Vegon looked north.

“Especially the crystal,” Vegon said.

Deacon’s mouth tightened.

“Yes.”

He did not understand the crystal. He understood enemies. Something had watched the road. Something had watched Arrowdale. Something had changed the way gnolls behaved. That frightened him more than simple savagery. A beast killed because it was hungry. An army killed because someone had decided where the bodies should fall. Night came slowly. No second attack. The five took turns on watch. Deacon chose the north barricade. Nobody argued. Near midnight, Jandar found him. Again. Deacon heard him coming this time.

“You should sleep,” Deacon said.

“So should you,” Jandar replied.

“I’m on watch.”

“I was emotionally compelled to inspect your work.”

Deacon kept looking north. Jandar leaned against the fence. For a while he said nothing. Improvement. Then:

“You lost someone to gnolls,” Jandar said.

Deacon did not move—not a question. That was worse. Jandar looked ahead.

“I said I wasn’t asking.”

“You are now.”

“No.”

Jandar’s voice stayed quiet.

“I’m telling you I know enough not to joke about that part,” Jandar said.

Deacon looked at him. There was no grin. No performance. He hated that more than the jokes. Because kindness had edges. It found places armor did not cover.

“Good,” Deacon said.

Jandar nodded. That was all. He started to leave.

“Jandar,” Deacon said.

He stopped. Deacon looked back toward the dark.

“When they come at me again—” Deacon began.

“They will,” Jandar said.

“Yes.”

Deacon paused.

“If I stop seeing the fight…” Deacon said.

Jandar waited. Deacon disliked the sentence. He finished it anyway.

“Make me see it,” Deacon finished.

Jandar’s expression changed. Only a little.

“Understood,” Jandar said.

Then the grin returned.

“Preferably without punching you,” Jandar added.

Deacon looked at him.

“I’ll punch back.”

“Excellent. We have a plan.”

Jandar left. Deacon watched him go. He had not told him anything—not ashlyn—not the dead. Not the years between then and now. Nothing that belonged to before. But somehow the man had understood enough. That bothered Deacon. It also helped. He returned his attention to the north. Nothing moved. At dawn, Arrowdale buried its dead. The five Silver Crown members from the cave were laid out beneath clean cloth near the inn, waiting to be returned to Windmarch.

Mara stood beside them.

“You’re taking them?” Mara asked.

“Yes,” Deacon said.

“All five?” Mara asked.

“Yes.”

She nodded. Then looked toward the hills.

“You coming back?” Mara asked.

Deacon followed her gaze.

“We’re not finished.”

That seemed to matter. Mara looked at him.

“Bring more people,” Mara said.

Jandar said, “I was going to suggest an army.”

“Bring useful people,” Mara replied.

Jandar placed a hand over his heart.

“Cruel.”

Mara almost smiled. They prepared to leave. The village gave them a cart for the dead. Nobody discussed payment. Zook checked the road. Xil secured the bodies. Vegon wrapped the ruined journal and recovered Silver Crown identifiers for the Order. Jandar found bread somewhere. Deacon did not ask whether he had paid for it. They left Arrowdale under a pale morning sky. Five living members of the Order walking beside five dead ones. The road south felt different.

The first time they had traveled it, they had been strangers. Deacon had thought mostly about whether they would become liabilities. Now he knew. Jandar talked too much and fought too close to crossbow bolts. Zook wandered away from roads because roads told him less than dirt. Vegon would risk his life for an answer if nobody stopped him. Xil would walk into danger to pull someone else out. Liabilities. Every one of them.

Deacon looked at the five covered bodies in the cart. Then at the four men around him. He adjusted the crossbow strap on his shoulder. For the first time in years, the thought of losing people he barely knew frightened him. He disliked that. But he did not mistake it for weakness. Behind them, far beyond Arrowdale, a horn sounded once from the hills. Deacon did not turn around. He knew what waited north.

And now, at least, Windmarch was going to know too.