Gren lay awake, unable to reverie. His mind was too busy, distracted by the knowledge of the future. Tomorrow, a storm would come, raining unholy fury upon the land. Legions of the undead would assault the vale, and he had to honestly wonder if any of them would survive. He closed his eyes tightly. He couldn’t afford to think like that if he was going to be at his best. With a small sigh, he turned his head and looked to his lover, her beautiful red hair covering part of her sleeping face.

Staring at her naked form, he forced himself to consider what they were fighting for. He had sworn to protect the village that his master had left in his charge. He had gotten to know them, gotten to know their spirit and their values, their outlook on their life. Where once Gren thought of them as caged, he now knew they were in the world they’d built for themselves, free from the corruption of larger cities and protected from the harsh reality of the wild. Surely they were worth defending.

He thought of the land itself that would likely be tainted forever by the touch of the undead. This vale had been Gren’s home for all his life. He was more attuned to the Great Mother here than anywhere else. This was where he’d spoken to his first animal friend, first listened to the song of the trees around him. He would die before letting it be destroyed.

Then there was Sara. His eyes focused in on her face, peaceful in sleep. He would give his life to protect her, to keep her from the touch of that which was most unnatural. He smiled to himself, knowing she would have none of that. She was just as much a fighter as he, and just as hateful of undeath. She would fight alongside him, in service to her god. He wondered, briefly, if she would fight for him as well.

He shook his head briefly, fighting off his paranoia. How many times would she have to prove that she loved him before he would believe it? He got up silently, getting dressed in the dark. They would fight alongside each other, for their lives and their love, for the people and the land, and despite the deep fears in his mind, they would be victorious. Once dressed and armored, he bent down and kissed her softly, almost imperceptibly on the cheek.

Running through the grass, he could feel the Great Mother’s trepidation. The land was nervous, as it knew what was coming. The trees wept in the wind, mourning not only the coming corruption, but also that such corruption existed at all. Like a plague, it would feast upon the earth, killing everything it touched. All the creatures, the plants, even the rocks and dirt were in mortal peril, and their cries carried upon the wind, into his ear.

Gren strode silently through the soldiers’ camp. He was not the only restless one this night, many soldiers sitting near small fires, reading or writing letters, likely to their loved ones. A few nodded his way, and he returned the gesture, but, like the earth, he could feel their nervous tension. Not far away, the edge of the village was lit by a large campfire, several villagers and a few soldiers sitting and idly chatting around it.

One of the villagers was playing a fiddle, and Gren was struck by the sad, lilting melody. There was no singing, but he could almost hear the words anyway. It was a sad song of loss, of quiet mourning of the honored dead. He looked back to the camp, and wondered how many would have it played at their burial. He ignored the refrain though of whether there would be anyone left to play it.