Fang & Bone: “13. The Sad Tale of Donnel Gaerig”

This is the thirteenth chapter of the Fang & Bone serial; click here to visit the previous installment of Fang of Triseria. Please share your thoughts on the story in the comments, or visit the project hub for more information.

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While I am generally not comfortable with intrusion into the narrative as a rule, this spot seems like the best moment, given what lies ahead. I want to divert from the tale of the Wolf, Barber, and Girl and explore a minor player in the events who might not otherwise get his due for his small but essential role in these events.

Donnel Gaerig was a third or fourth cousin to most of the residents of New Gordhurst. It’s in the name; Fang and Erryl were quite astute on the names bearing some derivation on Gor, and the Gaerigs being a further derivation – one that inherently connected them to the larger brood, but also separated them at once.

While somewhat unassuming and generally cowardly, Donnel was a likeable enough young man. This was good because he was the last of his family, and to survive, he had to be pitiable to survive himself, alone in the diasporic and shambolic town of New Gordhurst. The fall of Old Gordhurst resulted in the culling of his family, who had been on the quite literal outskirts of the town as the dead rose to claim residents – they, along with the Garlings, were the first to be lost in the community. 

Donnel was just a child then, around 14 or so, but managed to escape. In the time since, he had worked many jobs, but not particularly well. Eventually, he fell in with the town’s civil defense under the control of Eghart, who was particularly abusive to the young man.

So it would not come as a surprise that Donnel, as much of a coward as he was, was constantly thrust into patrols into the woods outside the town, where the ghouls wandered and pockets of bandits would pick off travelers. After all, he was a coward and would not have the wherewithal to stand up to Eghart.

And one of these patrols, a very important patrol that involved young Garen Gorse, brother of Corea Gorse,  is where Donnel’s story begins. Or, I guess if I wanted to be more precise, where it ended.

– EC

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Donnel Gaerig had not been so close to brutal, bloody death for a decade as he watched Herman get pulled to the ground by a pair of ghouls. Donnel saw greasy, wrinkled fingertips pry at the soft meat beneath the jaw and the top of the neck of the leather jerkin that served as the “uniform” of the civil patrol.

As the fingers plunged into Herman’s neck, arterial spray shot out as the man’s cries became a gurgle as he began to drown in his own blood. He began high-pitched, an almost pig squeal, and then began gasping and choking as the two ghouls pulled him into the mud and rotting plants. Donnel saw convulsing legs as the undead swarmed him, with a third stumbling over and falling into the grotesque tussle.

The sputtering cry ended, and so did the thrashing in one violent, final jolt. A horrific sound of tearing arose from the tangle of bodies. Donnel sank further against the tree, sliding down the trunk. He collapsed onto his rear and felt the wet mud soak into the breeches.

He thought of his Ma and Pa, and his baby sister. He thought of a ghoul tearing a chunk of her skin from her forehead as she screamed, and he ran. It was too late for Sylvy, and it was too late for Herman.

Donnel had an inkling that it was too late for Donnel.

He began to cry as he let his spear fall slack to his side. But a hoarse whisper from the tree line drew his attention.

“Donnel, get over here! Hey, get away from them!”

He glanced into the trees, recognizing the whisper as Garen, the youngest member of the patrol. The newest, too. What a godsdamned clusterfuck this all was.

“Donnel,” Garen whispered, “get your arse out of there.”

Donnel clutched his spear and fell belly-first into the mud, keeping his body low as he crawled over; he would glance back, seeing the ghouls still prying at Herman, dismembering him in a strange bit of strength not common to ghouls. They had yet to notice him worming his way from them. The two minutes of crawling to the tree line left him covered in mud, where he found Garen crouched low, his hand extended outward.

“Was it Herman?” Garen asked.

Donnel just nodded. Garen helped Donnel to his knees and guided him to a spot behind a tree.

“Gods. I lost track of everyone. Saw Spencer get pulled down by a group of three emerging from some hole in the ground.” Garen’s voice quivered. “One minute we were walking, and the next I saw a bunch of hands pull him into the undergrowth.”

Garen wiped at some of the mud that coated Donnel, continuing, “I – I stopped long enough to jam my spear into Spencer’s neck. I think I was able to kill him before they could. I think.”

Garen flicked watery mud away from Donnel as best he could.

“Glad I’m not alone here. Glad you made it.”

Donnel swallowed for a moment, then nodded. “I’m glad you’re safe, too.”

The two young men were crouched in silence, wary of any sound of motion. Any sudden snap of a twig, crow caw, or rustle of leaves or grass kept them on edge and their leg muscles taut, ready to explode into a run at a moment’s notice. After a couple of minutes, and some scouting by Garen, they moved further into the woods, still crouched, still silent.

“What happened with you and Herman?” Garen asked as he crept into the husk of an outlying shack. They were close to the old town now.

Donnel stepped in and sat on the stone mount of a crumbling hearth. He could have sworn he recognized the place, despite years of rot and overgrowth.

“I’d stepped into a trap. One of those fucking bandits had rigged one up.”

“What kind of trap? I don’t see any blood.”

Donnel shook his head.

“Alarm. Loud, jangly bits strung up. Dinner bell – draw the rotters and then loot the remains after.”

“Gods.”

“Before we knew it, we was being chased by a group of four, maybe five, but only two of them was in any shape to follow. Then that was when we hit the other trap.”

“Another alarm?”

Donnel shook his head again, this time slower, more hesitant.

“I got a light step. Herman not so much. Iron jaw snare.”

“Fuck.”

“Shattered his ankle, and they was on us. I couldn’t pull him away – I couldn’t…”

Donnel began to sob and folded over himself, his head between his knees. He couldn’t help it. Surely there was nothing to do, was there? The rotters were on them both, and Herman had no chance. Absolutely not. And yet…

Donnel continued to cry, but the feeling of Garen’s hand patting his back gave him pause.

“It’s not your fault, Donnel.”

Donnel looked up at the young man, who was leaning over him. He smiled a smile that appeared to take effort, more for Donnel’s benefit than his own. Donnel hadn’t really known much about Garen Gorse, but he seemed like a good kid. Much too young to be here in this shit.

Donnel wiped his nose with a muddy bracer and had to wipe away the mud from his face with the palm of his hand.

“I don’t even know why you’re out here, Garen. Ain’t you the Mayor’s nephew?”

Garen stepped back a bit, shook his head, and then spat at the ground. “Not by choice.”

The kid’s sour expression said a lot. There was no love lost between Garen and his uncle, it seemed.

“I’m not sure what we’re doing out here. The fucking Egg just sent us into a trap. Has it even been this bad out here for you, Donnel?”

Donnel stood up from the ruined hearth and propped himself against his spear, thinking back.

“I’ve been doin’ this for a few seasons and ain’t seen it this bad, kid. The things never get that close to town, and if we see them, it’s maybe one or two. The fact we’ve been chased this far toward the old town is pretty scary.”

“Maybe we can slip past them and get back home? We can tell the Egg we’ll need a cleanup patrol. More than four of us this time.”

Donnel nodded. The kid was a natural at this – this decisiveness – so unlike himself. He’d take Garen’s lead.

“I think you’re right. I just worry, it was five I saw, and you saw three, that was…”

“Seven.”

“Yeah, nearly ten, yeah? That’s the most I’ve seen out here since, well…”

Donnel thought back to the night the ghouls swarmed Old Gordhurst. He shuddered and rubbed the heel of his palm hard against his forehead. His skull was pounding.

“How old were you when it happened?” Garen asked.

“About 13 or 14, I think? I don’t really know how old I am.”

“Younger than me,” Garen added. His gaze was empty. He looked between the gaps of the ruined shack.

“Right now, my sister is about the age you were then.”

“Ah, yeah, the one who works at Nathan’s old place, yeah? She’s always kind to me. Certainly works harder than I did when I was working for him.”

“She works hard. Too hard. It’s why I am out here. Extra shares from the pantry. Also, maybe to see if I can scrounge up something while out here. Look at these.”

Garen’s child-like excitement as he opened a small bag to reveal a handful of mushrooms struck Donnel. Moments ago, Garen had the bearing of a leader, someone Donnel would follow. Now he was a child again, excitedly showing off the meager bounty he’d gathered in the surrounding woods.

Donnel chuckled.

Garen glanced up, meeting Donnel’s eyes.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothin’. Those are some good mushrooms.”

…

Donnel wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed as they lay low in the ruined shack. Both of them had taken turns scouting the surrounding area, and as near as they’d figured, Old Gordhurst was northeast of their position. That made the plan simple: avoid heading that direction and hope that the ghouls would wander further into the woods. As long as they kept quiet and did not draw attention to themselves, they’d eventually find a window to escape the pack that they knew of.

It was the other ghouls in the area that they were not sure about, though. Occasional moans would carry on the wind, driving the periodic caws and chirps of the local birds into silence. The effect was nerve-wracking as the sudden silence of the birds put Donnel’s neck hairs on end. He couldn’t be sure if the ghouls were closing in or not.

Garen kept calm, at least he appeared calm; Donnel could tell he was afraid. Nobody in their right mind would show no fear here. Perhaps if they were seasoned veterans and masters of ghoul-slaying, they would not be so on edge. But Garen was still a child in many ways, and Donnel was a coward in most ways.

What little light carried across the woods on an overcast day was fading, and the sky was growing red. By Donnel’s count, tonight would be one to three nights before Umbra was full, and the purple moon was always a bad sign. He hoped he would be back home by then. From there, he would quit the patrols and find a different job. Mucking shit again seemed preferable to being surrounded by the dead. 

They were dumb, not a mind between them, but in groups, they seemed to overwhelm. What chance did he and Garen have against a group?

He shook his head and put the thought out of his mind. As long as he and the kid were cautious and saw to one another, they had a chance. Maybe.

After a few worry-filled minutes, Garen spoke up, his voice low, trying not to draw unwanted attention.

“You mentioned a trap earlier. Iron jaws, right?”

Donnel nodded. “Bandits out here have been using the dead to pick off wanderers and robbing remains after they clear the area.”

“The bodies don’t get up on their own feet?”

“Nobody sticks around to see. At least from the village. There was a traveler who came to town, and we were thinking he was a bandit who tried to sell off some stuff. Nathan got him real, real drunk, and he spilled his beans.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“A while back, maybe two or three years after… You know. I was a chore boy and heard it all as I was working. Nobody told me nothing. Nobody knew I was listening. Saw Nathan slit the guy’s throat, knew he was a bandit the whole time.”

Garen shuddered. “How do you think they survive out here?”

Donnel stepped toward a gap in the shack wall and peered outside, warily. “They’re road folk. They’re built different than us. Hard lives make hard people. Something I heard Egg say once when he was real fucked up.”

Garen shook his head. “I don’t think this patrol stuff is worth it.”

Donnel sighed and leaned against the shack wall for a moment. It creaked.

“It really isn’t-”

The wooden wall, aged and rotten, crumbled under Donnel’s weight, and the clatter echoed among the tree line surrounding the small clearing. Donnel yelped as he fell over shin-high slats and fell on top of the pile with a further crash. The sound was apocalyptic, and Donnel immediately scrambled to his feet, and Garen rushed over to steady him.

“Oh gods, no. No,” Donnel muttered.

The air was still, and the woods around them were silent. Then, as though to punctuate their doom, one moan sounded out from the trees in the west, and other moans from the south. In moments, the first ghoul stumbled from between an oak and a tangle of brush.

Then another, a dozen feet along the tree line. Then more.

Donnel wasn’t good with numbers, but he knew when he had more than ten. How many more, he wasn’t quite sure. But this was far, far more than ten.

Within seconds of entering the clearing, a cacophony of guttural howls filled the clearing, and the ghouls began lurching toward the shack. He froze, his legs nearly giving out on him.

Donnel felt something shoved into his hands and saw that Garen had thrust Donnel’s own spear at his chest. The kid somehow managed to grab it from inside and make sure Donnel had it within seconds.

Then, Garen grabbed at the bindings that kept Donnel’s armor laced at the chest and pulled at him as hard as he could.

“Run!”

The wall of undead meant there was only one place to go – Old Gordhurst. Garen began to run at full speed. Donnel glanced at the incoming ghouls, cursed the gods, and followed after the boy. It was all he could do.

While the wave of ghouls had come from the opposite side of the clearing, away from the old town, there were sure to be ghouls ahead. The pair pushed through the trees and brush, aware of every snap of a twig and crunch of the leaves. Behind them, moans faded into the distance, but ahead, new moans grew louder.

“We need to find shelter,” Garen shouted back, “we can regroup and find a way out.”

Donnel said nothing. He felt his stomach drop and felt his knees crack. Garen kept shouting ideas, rallying Donnel as best he could, but all Donnel could hear was the torrent of blood in his temples and his own choking gasps. He slowed down, then, pausing to cough, and Garen came to a skidding stop and ran back, pulling at Donnel, who pushed him away.

Garen screamed at him. “Gods damn it, Donnel. Fucking run!”

“Go, go. Get out of here, kid.”

“No! We’re getting out of here!”

Garen took a few steps back. It looked like the kid was fighting the urge to leave him, and Donnel just wished he would. Garen’s eyes kept darting between Donnel and the scatter of trees that they had run through. Garen looked nervous, and the sounds of the ghouls crunching through the brush explained everything. Soon, Garen was bouncing in place, waving Donnel over, and practically whimpering – but the kid was falling back, more and more. Soon he’d give up – leave him. Donnel wanted that.

Garen continued to shout and holler. He pleaded, but Donnel didn’t heed it.

Then, a moment later, there was a crash of leaves and a yelp. Donnel glanced up to find that Garen had fallen into a pit and was clinging to the edge, unable to climb up under his own power.

“Fuck! Help!”

Ghoulish noises seemed to echo out from the pit, and in an instant, Donnel threw himself toward Garen and saw the hole was far deeper than he’d thought. He also noticed it was not just a hole – there was a tunnel.

As Donnel reached down to grab Garen, the boy lost his grip and fell many feet with a horrible thump. Without thinking, Donnel stuck his spear into the dirt just at the edge of the hole and lowered himself down, landing a couple of feet from the kid. He knelt.

“Are you okay? Can you walk?”

“Yes, but we need to get out of here!” Garen pointed to the tunnel behind Donnel. “They’re in here too!” 

Donnel didn’t glance behind him. It didn’t matter.

“I’ll help you out, come on!”

He pulled Garen to his feet and began to help him climb out of the tunnel. In front, as he lifted Garen over his shoulders, he saw shining eyes in the dark, approaching slowly.

Garen had just hoisted himself up and over the lip of the pit and belly-turned back around, throwing his hands back in to help Donnel climb out.

But by then, the first three sets of greasy hands had found purchase on Donnel’s armor and began pulling him deeper into the tunnel as Garen watched helplessly. Donnel’s eyes went wide for a moment as another hand grabbed at his hair.

Donnel smiled briefly, and as he was pulled into the dark, he said his final words: “I hope you get to see her.”

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