Chapter 02

The sky was an ominous steel gray with tufts of smoky black racing furtively across its expanse. Both men could smell the rain on the chill wind and they tried to huddle even further in upon themselves. The chill of the deaths they faced, though, had already crept into their very essence. They would find no refuge from the cold, neither physical nor spiritual.

Bone weary, the two men plodded, struggling to push their heavy cart through reddish brown mud that seemed determined to bar their way. Neither man could tell exactly how long they’d worked, how many days they’d been at their job. Their toil just seemed to continue on, day after day, without end.

Both would agree they were tired, though. Both would agree their muscles ached and bones cried out in pain. Neither was willing to stop; not until the job was done. Not until they were finished.

They were dressed similarly, both in dark black cloaks with a single wide piece of rolled white cloth circling each of their upper arms. Their pants were a formless mass of dark gray with various rips and tears throughout. The hem at the bottom of each leg was rolled up unevenly, a clear sign the clothing was not their own. The hems had to be rolled lest the overly large legs drag through the muddy sludge. They wore boots that were at least as old as the clothes they wore and in the same state of thoughtless disrepair, the seams opening and closing with every step.

“Last house,” the man on the left called, his voice muffled by the double layer of dirty gray cloths that covered his nose and mouth. Even through the covering, the sound of desperate relief could be heard. Though not its purpose, the mask concealed his face neatly so only his lidded brown eyes showed over the top of the once-white mask, eyes that were filled in a strange mix of pain and horror.

“Thank Tyln,” the man on the right muttered through his own double-layered mask. He was ever so slightly shorter than the man next to him and the strands of loose hair that slipped from under the heavy wool cap he wore on his head was darker with flecks of gray. His companion’s own stray locks were lighter and no gray had yet touched them. Their dull blue eyes, however, showed the same mix of agony and despair. “I was beginnin’ ta think this’d never end.”

The men continued their struggle with the cart, fighting to move it closer to the wood and thatch structure that could only nominally be called a home. Bodies pushed to the point of exhaustion, they were only marginally successful before giving up.

“Be glad ta get in me own kit,” the man on the right grunted as he lifted a dangling arm. It had come over the walls of their cart while they’d been man-handling the rickety wooden wagon. The man tossed it over, but It flopped onto the top of the cart’s rail before falling back down against the outside rails lifelessly. The man swore and shoved it up even harder. “Cart’s getting’ full ... agin.”

“Last house,” the man on the left echoed the other’s own words back. “Be enough room for what we find inside, I reckon.”

“Hope so, Kalem,” the man on the right shuddered. “I don’ fancy dumpin’ this lot and comin’ back. I seen enough a death to last lifetimes.”

“Ya ain’t pissin’ in the wind, Gerosh,” Kalem replied, pulling his pants up higher. He strode to the door and took a deep breath. “Le’s just get it over with.”

The door wasn’t any different than the seemingly hundreds of others which the two men had opened in the past several weeks, some were stronger and made of sturdier material but a door was pretty much a door. Like many others, it was just six vertical planks held together by two horizontal ones with mud caulking between the boards to keep the weather out. Kalem grabbed the leather strap that served as a door handle and pushed tentatively. As usual, the door was held shut by either strap or loop.

“Help me wit’ da door,” Kalem called forlornly. “Looks like summat tied it shut.”

Kalem took a step back and Gerosh took a step forward, the shoulders of both men slumped in resignation. Each man took a deep breath before Kalem called out, “Tyln ... Yan ... Dagah!” On Dagah, the god of destruction, the two men kicked out with their feet. With a crack, the door split in the middle, the two horizontal planks splintering in two and cakes of long dried earth decorating the floor.

Kalem peered into the hole as he pushed and pulled the pieces of the door until the decrepit barrier finally gave way, half the door dangling on one side from some rope that had held the door closed and the other half on the other side pushed back on the leather straps that served as hinges. He pushed the hinged piece, opening it wide.

The house was dark and Kalem couldn’t make out any candles or lanterns. “Grab the lanterns, wouldja Gerosh?”

Gerosh went back to the cart and unhooked the two dirty, scratched, hexagonal bronze lanterns with their dirty, gray glass panes on each side. The man grimly remembered taking them from the very first house, a rich merchant’s; they’d been in much better shape back then. He looked down at his stained clothing; everything’d been in much better shape back then.

He rushed back to Kalem, the lanterns rocking wildly from each hand; he knew better than to hold them together where the glass panels might smash or crack. The lanterns were lighter than they’d been in the morning; though the two had conscientiously filled the lanterns with oil at the beginning of each work day, the day had been long and dark. With flints, the two men lit the old, decrepit lanterns.

The door opened up to a room that was surprisingly well kept for all that there was a soft layer of dust over everything. A clean, tidy hearth was along the far wall and the bundle of sticks and twigs arranged inside looked ready to be lit. A well-used brush and shovel stood against the gray brick on one side and a rather large stack of wood sat along the other. A clean bear rug lay in front of the hearth and a few rickety but well-kept chairs sat a bit further back. Everything was neat and tidy, nothing out of place. If the two men didn’t know better, they might expect a family to just jump into the room, light the fire and sit before it to keep out the cold.

The rancid smell of old, diseased, decaying meat that managed to permeate their doubly-thick cloth masks laid the lie to that thought.

Kalem looked over at Gerosh, his eyes tearing though it was impossible to tell whether the tears were from the pungent odor of death or remorse at what he might find in the next room. He jerked his head to the doorway, separated from the family room by a large, thick curtain of fur. Gerosh nodded back and followed as Kalem pulled the fur back.

It led to a small hallway with three rooms, one on the left and two on the right. Each was separated from the hallway by large, old-but-clean fur drapes. In spite of himself, Kalem took a deep breath in preparation before stepping to the first door on the right; it was closest to the hallway entrance. He glanced inside, shoving his lamp ahead of him and nearly let out a cry.

His head dropped. “Chaos take it all,” he muttered, shaking his head. He looked up at Gerosh, his brown eyes liquid with agony. “Gods know I hates it when it’s chillens.”

Gerosh looked inside and immediately looked away. The little girl couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, her unseeing eyes staring off into space while putrid flies and other critters buzzed and moved around her. Her skin was reddish, her face filled with white rings surrounded by dark red starbursts.

“I’ll get her,” Gerosh offered, putting his gloved hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Check out the next room.”