After crossing a stone bridge that spanned a murky river, Lance and his party finally arrived at the Hamlet.
Upon entering the town, Lance was struck by its profound desolation. Unlike the cities of his memory, the Hamlet was mostly comprised of cramped, crude hovels of wood, their roofs thatched with nothing more than straw to keep out the elements. Though it was morning, the streets were nearly empty. The few souls he saw were either squatting or lying in the corners of buildings, dressed in ragged burlap, their faces sallow-skinned and gaunt, their eyes hollow pits of despair. They seemed to have lost all hope, merely waiting for death.
The scars of war were everywhere. Great swathes of the town were nothing but ruined, collapsed houses, the scorched black timbers a clear testament to some recent catastrophe. It was hard to imagine the horrors that had unfolded here. The population, too, had been decimated; many homes stood empty, their interiors a chaotic mess, silent witnesses to some unknown tragedy.
Seeing this, Lance could only curse inwardly.
The Ancestor, that thrice-damned fool. To leave me such a festering ruin.
"My lord, what do we do now?" Dismas asked, recognizing that this was not a place one could easily survive.
"First, we find something to eat and a place to rest our heads. We can decide on a course of action once we've recovered."
Lance led them deeper into the town. The situation was marginally better than he had first thought. While the roofs were still thatch, the walls of the buildings here were made of wattle and daub rather than wood, giving them a slightly more solid appearance. The ground, however, was still a mire of mud, and the foul stench of excrement, dumped directly into the streets, hung heavy in the air. Lance had to carefully pick his way around the filth, each step a torment to his senses.
The layout of the Hamlet was simple. It was less a town and more a large fishing village. Only near the central square did it begin to resemble a proper town. The few large, stone-and-brick buildings surrounding the square spoke of the Hamlet's former glory, but time had not been kind. Every structure was damaged to some degree, the destructive power of war on full display.
"This way. To the tavern."
It was still early. As Lance pushed open the tavern door, he half-expected the dilapidated building to collapse. The bar was empty, save for a young man who looked to be the tavern boy, wiping down tables.
"Mornin' to you, sirs!" the boy called out as they entered.
"What is there to eat?"
"For the mornin', we have vegetable potage, meat and potato stew, black bread, and some chicken or fish."
Though he'd learned from the brute that the Magistrate was manipulating food prices, Lance was still stunned by the cost of things here. Black bread—a coarse mix of bran, pea flour, and other grains, sour from poor fermentation and with a texture like chewing sawdust—cost a whole copper piece per pound. In the city, one copper could buy two pounds of soft, sweet white bread. A pound of beef was only three or four coppers. Here, the pig feed they called bread was a luxury, and pork was as expensive as beef. As for beef itself, even a man with coin like him could scarcely afford it, let alone the common folk.
"Three bowls of the vegetable potage, three servings of the fish. And a mug of ale for these two."
As the food was served and they began to eat, Lance saw Reynauld's face from under his helm for the first time. He wore a thick, full beard and looked to be in his thirties, but his face was haggard, etched with a sorrow and a strange, deep-seated self-loathing. His eyes, however, still held the fervent heat of the Holy Light. For now, though, hunger was a more pressing concern. Lance ate.
While they were eating, a ragged, dirt-caked figure with a stooped frame stumbled into the tavern.
"Hey! What're you doin' in here? The boss'll have my hide if he sees you!" The tavern boy abandoned his rag and hurried to block the person's path, but he could not stop their desperate cry.
"Please, just a morsel of food. I'll do anything."
From the voice, Lance realized it was a woman, though she sounded terribly weak.
The strange woman was quickly shooed out. The tavern boy hurried back to their table, apologizing.
"Beggin' your pardon for the disturbance, sirs. She's a wretched soul. Please, pay her no mind."
"Oh?" Lance's interest was suddenly piqued. "What is her story?"
But before the boy could answer, a commotion at the door once again drew Lance's attention.
"Damned bad luck, seein' a filthy wretch like you first thing in the mornin'!"
A ruffian swaggered at the tavern's entrance, cursing as he kicked the huddled figure of the woman, who had curled into a ball on the ground, absorbing the blows. The tavern boy rushed out and, while enduring a string of insults, managed to placate the thug with a string of fawning praises, finally leading him inside. The woman used the opportunity to flee.
The ruffian shoved his way in, sneering at the tavern boy.
"What's wrong with you, lettin' that kind of..."
His tirade cut short as he seemed to notice Lance's gaze. His face twisted into a snarl.
"What are you lookin' at!"
But upon realizing they were strangers, his interest grew. Lance, in particular, looked clean and well-off. A greedy glint appeared in the ruffian's eyes. Like a wolf spotting a fat sheep, he started towards their table.
"I'm the constable around here. I have reason to suspect you're brigands, so I'll need to inspec—"
He fell silent. Dismas's pistol was aimed squarely at his head.
Lance watched as Dismas, with one hand on his gun, calmly used the other to bring a spoonful of stew to his lips. He did not even deign to look at the ruffian. His contempt was palpable. The thug froze, his survival instinct screaming a warning that this man would not hesitate to shoot.
"My lord, what could you mean? They're just travelers, passing through. They'll be on their way soon," the tavern boy said, breaking the tense silence and giving the ruffian an out.
"Where's my food! You tryin' to make me wait all day? You want to die?!" the thug roared, venting his frustration on the boy. He shot a few more curses his way but dared not provoke Lance's party again.
"Yes, yes, right away," the boy said with a strained smile, rushing to the back to get the food. He quickly served the thug, who ate and left.
The tavern boy immediately returned to their table, his voice low and urgent.
"He's likely fresh from the brothel. You should eat quickly and go. If he comes back with his friends, there will be trouble."
"That's fine," Lance said, unconcerned. He placed a copper coin on the table, turning his question to the boy. "We're just passing through, but we've noticed this town is... peculiar. We have some questions for you. Answer them well, and this is yours."
"Ask whatever you like, sir! I'll tell you what I know," the boy said obsequiously, his eyes involuntarily drawn to the coin. Here, unlike in the city, a day's work earned him a full belly, but never coin. Yet even so, his job was a coveted one.
"What happened to this town?"
"Sigh... the town was manageable, before. But a fortnight ago, the brigands..."
Quickly, Lance began to piece together the story. Two weeks ago, brigands had attacked the Hamlet, burning, killing, and looting, and the town's population had plummeted.