Lake Razmindull

          The waters of Lake Razmindull blazed. Its undulating surface served as a colossal mirror, reflecting the day’s light far and wide. Surrounded on three sides by dense forest, the massive body would have looked from the sky like the eye of some great and ancient beast, gazing forever upwards, imbued with the wisdom of a thousand ages. To the east and west the woodlands stretched for many miles, a great green swathe interrupted only by the occasional rocky hillock or stretch of farmland. To the north, the forest grew denser still, encompassing everything from Lake Razmindull to the northern coast of Halthon, where its surge finally met its demise at the hands of the Vistrianican Sea.
An intense and humid heat had made itself known on this particular day, infusing the air with moisture and making long stretches of prolonged travel impossible. The lake was famed for its varied and plentiful store of fish, a reputation that normally brought hundreds of fishing boats to its fertile waters, but in the day’s searing heat only the most stalwart of fishermen possessed the will power necessary to attempt a haul. The spires of the city of Avernostrium could be seen easily from any point on the lake, and it was these constant reminders of home that Ihsais Olereas used to chart his position upon the water. It was five hours sailing from the docks at Avernostrium to the place at which he had settled, and in the heat the journey had been almost unbearable, but Ihsais was well aware of the rewards. As he cast his mahogany rod into the depths, he recalled how his late father had once told him that this little known area was home to an incredible variety of water dwellers, and that it was the most lucrative spot on the entire lake to cast out. Ihsais had sailed out the next day and caught two hundred fish.
Making a few final adjustments to his position, Ihsais retreated under the boat’s small canopy for shade. The water gleamed. Gazing southwards at the colossal spires, Ihsais felt the sweat glide down his forehead. He had not known a day as hot since his youth, and since the greying of his temples he had not know one half as hot. Still, the fish market waits for no man he had told himself as he rose from bed. There were always fish to be caught, and with so few boats on the lake he’d make a stout profit for the day’s haul.
Three hours later Ihsais had already caught nearly a hundred fish, a pinnacle even for him. He rubbed his hands thinking of the money he’d surely make from just a day’s haul. The day had grown no cooler, and so once again he retreated to the shelter of the boats emerald canopy. The heat was exhausting, and Ihsais was finding it increasingly difficult to reel in the larger fish. His body was not as resilient to fatigue as it once had been. Sitting there beneath the calming blue canopy, soft ripples playing on the edge of his vision, Ihsais’ eyelids began to slowly close. Before long a deep and dreamless sleep overtook him.
He was awakened with a jolt by a foul and pungent stench. The fetid assault seemed to invade his nostrils, tearing him violently from his slumber. Trying desperately not to breath through his nose, Ishais emerged from the canopy and scanned the immediate area for any sign of what could possibly cause such an outbreak of foulness. The smell was intensifying, and the extreme heat wasn’t helping. Isaiah was reminded of the stench of decaying cattle.
Desperately he peered across the water, but had slept longer than he had imagined, and the onset of evening was beginning to encroach upon his vision. He pondered his next move. He would have to return home, the smell was beginning to make him feel light-headed, and he feared that whatever was causing it could be harmful with prolonged exposure. Packing away his rod and clutching the boats oars, Ihsais began to turn southwards. There was an audible thud from the side of the boat. It had hit something in the water, and setting down his oars Ihsais moved cautiously to the starboard side to see what he had collided with. The humble fisherman was ill prepared for what he saw.
Two pale, faded eyes stared up at Ihsais, or rather through him, as devoid of life as the water that lapped at their corners. A gaunt, half rotten face bore them, white as the spires of Avernostrium. A blue and white tunic adorned the torso, the uniform colours of an Avernostrian Guardsman, the legion’s proud emblem thrice pierced by cruel black arrows. The guardsman floated amid a crimson mist, his essence forever drained from him.
Ihsais reeled in horror, his fear launching him backwards, colliding with the far side of the boat. For a while he stayed there, as far from the gruesome sight as the small vessel would allow.  Minutes passed. At length, the fisherman stole himself, and edging towards the far side peered once more into those lifeless orbs. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of pity for the fallen soldier, and it suddenly gripped at his heart with crushing force. The last pangs of fear within him melted away, replaced at once with both a deep, echoing sadness, and a resolve to do all he may to preserve the memory of this poor soul, whose essence was doubtless resting now within the Walls of the World.
He would have to haul the body aboard and give it passage home, that its former host might enjoy the warmth and solace of a proper burial. This would be no light undertaking, for Ihsais was not the strongest of men, nor was he possessed of a constitution hardened to anything of a less commonplace or longer festering foulness than the splayed innards of a fish. Summoning every ounce of will within him, Ihsais tentatively leaned out of the boat, edging his hands towards the waist of the slain guardsman.
As he clasped his hands around the cadaver, Ihsais could feel a sickening lack of solidity, and he wretched. Lifting the body clear of the water was a drawn out undertaking. Ihsais was not a strong man, and was forced first to drape the head and arms over the side of the boat, hoisting the legs over separately. The guardsman slid inanimately down the sloped inner hull of the craft, leaving in its wake a slick trail the colour of wine. His gruesome task complete, Isaiah leaped to the rowing bench and turned for home once more. His slicked hands trembled as he gripped the oars. From some whim of fate it seemed, a black cloud had descended upon his life this day, and he found his mind caught between the paralyzing shock and fear of what had befallen him, and the overwhelming desire to be rid of it. The latter soon dominated his consciousness, and he began to row with youthful vigour towards the spires of home.
Seconds after he had begun however, a glint in the corner of his eye distracted him, and he paused. Rising to his feet, he gazed out onto the north eastern region of the lake, from whence he fancied the flash had come. He strained his eyes but could see little for the heat rising off the water’s surface. He recalled that he had brought his spectacles along with him, and retrieving them from his breast pocket, brought the lenses before his eyes.

*    *    *

The spires were growing shadows upon their western faces.
Ladinnar Rawthe was preparing to retire for the evening when he heard the shout. The guardsman donned his sergeant’s helm, rose from his post and rushed through a narrow alley out into the north dock. Another guardsman was waiting for him.
         ‘Sir, an old fisherman brings black news from the lake,’ he explained, fear in his eyes.
         ‘Where is he?’ inquired Ladinnar sharply. The guardsman directed him to the eighth jetty, to which the sergeant made haste.
         When he arrived, a small, elderly man in spectacles and gaunt with terror was kneeling upon the planks, inconsolable. Ladinnar knew it to be old Ihsais Olereas, a fisherman known for his luck on the waters. Several people were gazing out over the lake as though searching for something. Ladinnar approached the old man and knelt beside him.
         ‘What is it Ihsais?’ he asked softly, ‘What unravels you so?’ But the fisherman could not bring himself to speak, his tears choked his chords. Some metres behind him a small crowd had gathered, and clustered around something upon the jetty. Clearing a way through he looked down. There lay the half-rotted corpse of an Avernostrian soldier, uniform bleached crimson, eyes staring forward with unearthly focus. Buried deep in the soldier’s chest, a trio of cruel black arrows protruded.  Ladinnar felt a pang of foreboding. There was something familiar to him about thier design, but he could not place it. The guardsman that had called him bid him come once more. Ladinnar rose and walked along the boards to the edge of the jetty. The wood creaked beneath his boots. A faint and unpleasant scent caught his senses as he walked. Coming to the edge he glanced over the lake, it shimmered for him. The guardsman stared forward, his hands trembling.
         ‘What is it Amon?’ he asked, confused.
         ‘The lake sir,’ he quavered ‘I bid you look across it’
         Ladinnar’s eyesight was average at best, and he strained to bring the body of water into focus in the day’s glare.
         ‘Hand me you’re osmium’ he ordered sharply, annoyed at his own deficiency.
         Adjusting the osmium’s crystal lenses, Sergeant Ladinnar held the heavy length of bronze to his better eye, and peered to the lake’s northern extremity. He immediately wished he had not. The instrument fell to the floor with the shattering of its topaz innards. Ladinnar took a few steps back. His mind stalled.
Bodies.
Thousands of bodies littered the northern section of Razmindull. The gruesome vista sparkled with the myriad gleams of unnumbered coats of armour. Even in full battle gear, the corpses remained afloat: the lake was famous for its tremendous buoyancy, thought by most to be the tail of some long forgotten enchantment upon its waters. Blue and white, and red with blood, the bodies were to any citizen of Avernostrium clearly those of city guardsmen, soldiers of the king.
Ladinnar felt a choking sensation. He had recalled whereupon he had seen an arrow such as those buried in the recovered guardsman; in a great tomb of history many years before, when he was a young man. That, along with the scene on the lake, made his blood run cold. A tight, visceral fear gripped him, but only for a moment. He found his nerve and spun on his feet, sprinting towards the city with all the haste he could muster.
Coming across a sprightly looking young man, he grabbed him by the shoulders and locked his eyes.
         ‘Hear me now lad, you must make haste to the palace and deliver a message,’ he bellowed at the frightened youth, ‘with all your speed and vigour must you submit to this task.’
         The boy trembled before the sergeant, but stole himself quickly. He was a proud young man.
         ‘What message would you have me deliver sir?’ he asked.
         Ladinnar’s face was white, his brow glistening. He struggled with the words, so weighty were they, as though they pulled down within him and would not ascend past his throat.
         ‘The king must know,’ he began furtively, ‘that Demons walk our roads.’
         The boy was away.