The road to Gorwahl was significantly less crowded than the way to the Count’s camp. This was the Great Way, the arteries of Silesia through which her lifeblood flowed. In her northern reaches however, it was significantly less impressive than the name might imply—ancient and worn cobbles were edged by larger flagstone, here and there stones missing and broken. Every mile, unless knocked over, sat long-eroded markers denoting the distance to the nearest town.

                Names, places, things, dear Silesia. Never tiring nor seeing a reason to stop, Mikel could do nothing but remain trapped in his mind as he trudged south. Images of the damned and wasted creatures in their cages constantly harried his thoughts; he could not forget the brand on their chest and the selfsame mark on his own heart, throbbing as it was. There could be no rest. Answers—someone had to have answers. The Gorwahl was the seat of the Elector-Prince Lucerne Sarredun, a direct line to the Emperor-elect himself, and certainly these Cursemarked creatures had to be known to them or other imperial agents. The threat was far more serious than the Margrave had seemed to know. Rumors of levies across the Electorates had much more grounding now.

“Not that any rumor sounded far-fetched anymore,” Mikel thought ruefully. The worst of it, the Cursemarked, had been entirely true. He thought he might turn back to Stetten, to his family, Jutte and Marie, but he could not turn himself. He had to understand what the Cursemark meant—why he had it, what purpose did it have, what could he do to remove it. The later question the most pertinent. The cruel and indifferent Cursemarked, hacking his comrades to bits, burned into his mind.

“I will not allow myself to become one of those,” Mikel murmured into a finger clenched between his teeth.

                Nothing moved in the surrounding villages, not even of dogs and animals. The Prince-Elector’s men should have been on patrol this close to Gorwahl, or at least some outriders or messengers, but the road remained bare. Mikel began to wonder if he had been revivified in some dead mirror world, but a slinking tabby on a rooftop showed him that at least something lived beyond droning insects and songbirds. People had left in a hurry on bindles and wagons, packing as much as they could. Buildings were shuttered and locked, indicating to Mikel that their exodus was not done at bladepoint.

                Quite a few people had been on this road recently, judging from the detritus and tramped and eaten grass beside the Great Way. This steeled Mikel’s resolve that the Margrave had been here. A stone tavern, large, imposing, and entirely out of place in a twelve-hut village, stood shuttered and dark, though from a second story window Mikel thought he saw a brief motion, curtain fluttering in the wind. No one answered when he knocked—looking down at his disheveled armor, he did not blame them. Calling out while walking around the establishment, Mikel thought he might try the door, but stopped himself at the handle. If they were not answering him now, breaking in would not help. He was tired, and did not think he could inflict violence on these poor folk. Returning to the road, he glanced back up at the window. The curtain was still, drawn and tied. Mikel frowned, turning to leave. No matter.

                Closer to the city, more life began to appear. No matter the times, people had to eat—thin tendrils of smoke climbed from scattered smokehouses showed that life still went on. Occasionally a laborer could be seen chopping wood or other such mundane tasks, but they would always be gone before Mikel arrived, or would turn and run on sighting him. One old fellow, bald and with a head and neck resembling a finger, scowled at him as he came close, gesturing angrily with his hands and waving a long pipe in the direction of the city.

“You’re all bad luck!” the codger exclaimed, eyes furrowed and spit flying from cracked lips. “The city—go to the city. All you lot are gathering there. I don’t want anything to do with et.”

“You lot?” Mikel questioned wryly, his head tilting slightly. His right hand clenched, wanting to cover his mark.

The old man pointed to the Stetten lion staring out at him, crying “You Stetten folk, bringing damnation everywhere you trod!”

“I think ‘damnation’ might be in excess here,” Mikel said dryly, though slightly relieved the old man didn’t seem to know about the cursemark.

“I knows what I said,” the old man plainly stated, bottom lip out. He turned, shuffling to enter his cottage. “Couldn’t keep the Elb out, and now the Prince is in a panic.” As he shut the door on Mikel standing there, the old man muttered one final point: “Everyone is in a panic. I’m not. I won’t go. Right here, I’m going to stay right here.” The door shut, and Mikel was left alone as the codger drew his sole window shut. His first human interaction in God knows how long, and it had to have been with an ancient peasant more akin to a mule than a man.

                Scratching his face, Mikel let the old man be. His beard never grew, and that bothered him immensely. His left thumb worked the hole in his gauntlet again as he trod down the road. There had been riders about earlier, though they did not pay him mind as he attempted to flag him, only pointing down the road. Everything seemed to be in upheaval, but he was left behind. The old man’s testimony gave further credence though—Stetten men had been through here. The margrave had to be regrouping, meeting with the Prince-Elector. It was all a bit more than they had thought in their borderland—the nation was going mad, but this was different than the last time some tribesmen made it through the borders. Cursemarked men. What else awaited them?

                A patrol on the outskirts of Gorwahl directed him to the east gatehouse—the North gate was sealed shut. Gorwahl was a normally breathtaking city, built on a large eyot on the river Prag; an island of civilization on the water. Flagstones rose out of the water as the dual purposed curtain and retaining walls, encircling the entirety of the island. Gorwahl had never been sacked, largely considered impregnable to her enemies. To most people of the Empire of Moravia, the Gorwic folk were seen as soft and womanlike because of this; far too urban, mercantile, and entirely safe of a people. The wealth of the Prag flowed through her, and the financial power of the city only solidified this view amongst jealous sisters. Nonetheless Gorwahl was a beacon amongst the principalities, and it was no wonder the Landgrave of Gorwahl had almost always been the Prince-Elector of Silesia, much to the chagrin of Ricter’s smothered ambition.  

                A disheveled shantytown had formed around the shoreside abutment of the Helm bridge, the main connection of the city to the Grand Way, resembling a great stone serpent spanning the river Prag. It was so named as the arches of the bridge appeared as a regiment of pristine helmets sitting upon the water, a testament to the wealth and ingenuity of Gorwahl. The bridge was impressive enough to accommodate a full sailing ship, though little other than barges ever came this far inland. Two flat and imposing towers dotted the serpent’s back like spines, guarding the drawbridges from either side of the center, and irregular white stone houses and other enterprises crowded the sides, the seedy residents taking full advantage of technically being outside of the city. Those too destitute or unsavory to pay the bridge tax formed a community outside and on the bridge itself.

                That shantytown was new however, formed of the countryside folk who streamed to the city for safety. People of all walks were present: hardy farmers and laborers, dirty children and womenfolk, stinking dyers and butchers, and wary guards and merchantmen. On one corner a loincloth clad man dirty as sin itself, wiry and white haired, screamed and shouted incoherencies to all that passed. Beside him, sitting in the filth of the slum street, a languid and lifeless old woman stared silently at the passing people. A cold fist gripped Mikel’s gut as he looked into her dim eyes. Frothy white spittle dripped down the man’s chin into his beard, and the crazed eyes of the doomsayer locked into Mikel’s. Grabbing at the woman’s hair and forcing her eyes into his own, the doomsayer turn to Mikel, and shrieked “Behold! Behold! Our mutual destiny! Our cursed fate!”

“We are all cursed. You,” the crazed man pointed at Mikel’s heart, and then to himself.

“Me.”

“Everything will be stolen from us, and there will be nothing! The souring of wormwood has seeped deep into the earth.” The doomsayer let go of the old woman’s head, allowing it to drop. She did not react. The man stepped closer to Mikel, whispering “It has poisoned us all.”

“It poisoned us all!” the man screamed, turning back towards the uncaring crowd, Mikel’s part in his drama finished.

“The Eschaton is upon us!” The crazed man continued his ranting unabated, and Mikel just shook his head with rapidity, trying to loosen the two from his mind as he continued through the shantytown to the Helm bridge proper.

“Wormwood,“ thought Mikel, despite his attempts to dispel the doomsayer from his mind. Hawkers and beggars pulled at him as he ambled past, lost in thought. A few folks nodded at the herald on his breast, causing Mikel to raise his hand over the hole. Those eyes might see a bit more than just the Stetten Lion peeking through. Cursing himself, he had wished he had picked up a cloak from the dead. Too many people, too suddenly, too much of a contrast to the empty northern roads. Swallowing hard and heart hammering, Mikel turned to an alleyway—more a hole between two ramshackle bridgehomes.

                Dropping to a squat before falling to a knee, back and head against the wall, Mikel closed his eyes and tried to steady his breath, one hand over his breast and the other holding his nose. It felt as if blood were rushing in his ears, a feeling he was familiar with, though this time, different. It was nearly overwhelming with each shuddering breath. He did not know how long he sat there, but it was a long time before his heart calmed and his hands dropped, the first time he felt exhaustion since his awakening. A soldier stood in the poor light of the bridge, dingy bandages covering half his face and battered kettle helmet in hand. An imperial classic, down to the faded yellow gambeson, Mikel noted as he gathered his resolve. Suddenly it hit him: yellow.

                Mikel stood quickly, redoubled. To his credit, the soldier waited patiently for him to be ready, showing no signs of impatience, having averted his eyes from Mikel’s form. On noticing him rise however, the soldier gave a quick salute, fist over chest, which Mikel slowly returned.

“Were you there then?” Mikel asked sideways.

“Yessir. With Graf Conrad,” the soldier answered, adding softly “God save his soul.” Mikel nodded silently and lowered his eyes. After a moment, the soldier remarked with forced jocularity, “A real cock-up, eh?”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Mikel answered, returning the false jest. Slowly shaking his head, “Never seen anything like those… Creatures.” Thinking back to the doomsayer, he added “Maybe this is the eschaton.”

The soldier scoffed, looking out of the alley to the tollmen. “End of the world then, and they’re still collecting taxes?”

For the first time in a long while, that produced genuine humor from Mikel. He stuck his right arm out and the soldier returned the gesture, pulling him close. 

“Sir Mikel Warin, Foot Knight of Stetten.”

“Gregor Aders,” the soldier replied, and after a thought, adding “Halberdier.” Noting no poleaxe on the man, Mikel raised his eyebrow slightly. This would answer whether there was a full route or at least some kind of organized retreat.

                Sensing his question, Gregor pointed to a tavern, whitewash dingy and faded, but in front of which and seen through the wide windows milled numerous soldiery.

“A few of us are billeted there.” Glowering, he added venomously “Less than it should be.”