A few bodies

  Durven cracked an eye, squinted into the sliver of light peeking through the curtains. Right in his left eye, like clockwork. No surer way of waking in the morning. He flung the covers wide, swung his feet onto the floorboards. Quick out of bed, he found, was the guaranteed cure for a lazy knack. Lie another five minutes, before you know it, it’s two hours. Before you know it, you’re fucked.

  He marched to the window while smoothing his hair and flung the curtains open. He stared at the town outside for a while, considering the scene. White canvas marked the multitude of cramped tents lined along the stretch of muddy road and rows of small houses. A few bodies moved about the misty hours of dawn, like ghostly apparitions floating aimlessly among the vacant streets.

  ‘Right then,’ he grunted. There was a funeral to attend. No time to dally.

  He made for the water basin. Icy splash of water in the face. Quick dry off with the towel. Pants on, then boots, shirt and coat. Fast. Efficient. Serves a man to have a morning routine. Sets the tone for the day.

  He smoothed his hair again on the way to the door. Small house. Smaller than what he was accustomed to. But fuck it. Had to make dew when all there was is damn fog. Grabbed his longsword in passing even as he swung the door open and stepped through. The frisky morning air greeted him eagerly, doubly fresh with the leftover water droplets still on his face. He planted his feet wide with hands on hips, then took a deep lungful of the stuff, coursing delightfully through his body, feeling a devious grin spread across his lips. He let the steam roll off his lips in satisfaction. Truly an invigorating tonic. He would call the recipe a close kept secret, but that’d be a lie. And Durven didn’t see eye to eye with lies. A most lethal allergy, those in his vicinity especially susceptible. No, he’d have to settle for undervalued recipe on account of nobody else sipping on it.

  ‘Good sleep then?’ came Anders’ gruff voice from his post left of the door, arms folded and eyes narrowed in perpetual homage to his character.

  ‘Anders, the day my sleep turns sour is the day the world’s turned upside down,’ explained Durven with that still gleeful smile as he regarded the scenery.

  ‘Maybe I’ll sing you a lullaby before bedtime, just to be sure,’ Anders’ own little grin taking shape. ‘I’d hate for us all to start falling into the sky.’

  ‘Don’t you lose sleep over it, now. Need you all moxie-like.’

  ‘Right ya’ are, Boss,’ piped up Dimmy in that high-pitched voice of his. He slouched against the wall to the right as he carved some manner of something from a block of wood with his hunting knife. Scrawny fellow with a beaked face. Other members stood about him, early risers, or arse-lickers, all eager to voice their respectful greetings to the Boss.

  ‘Anders, be so kind as to wake the rest of our brood,’ inclined Durven as he tied the sword around his waist.

  A moment later the most ear-splitting whistle rang out across the dead hours of the morning. A good few seconds it lasted. The others already had their fingers plugging their ears. Not Durven though. Had to fight to keep the grimace from his face. Can’t show fear as the leader. Not even fear of a whistle, not even for a heartbeat. Moment you do, you’re fucked.

  Before his sword belt was fastened proper, a good ten more men came rushing over, near stumbling over one another, some still yanking on boots or pulling on pants or buttoning up shirts, swords flailing about their waists like helpless drowners. They gave their greetings, spoken clearly and to the Boss. One even gave a salute. Durven returned it with a, ‘The fuck?’ kind of frown, obligating the man to look down sheepishly, cheeks red like a nose bleed.

  ‘Right boys!’ Durven called out, striding ahead of the bunch. ‘If we’re to catch the world by the balls, best get moving.’

  He heard the trudging from behind as his men moved to follow. Anders fell into step beside him on his right, suspicious looking. That’s to say, suspiciously looking. Right next to Durven was exactly the right place. Where else would he belong? He gave his men freewill to stay as they pleased, of course. He didn’t tie people down so they’d no choice on the matter. That’s a shit poor design for leadership and an apt way to get yourself killed. Give them a choice and they’d choose you every time. Provided you didn’t fuck up.

  This way he knew those that stuck around did it out of loyalty, a place to belong mayhaps. Mostly though – he had to admit – they did it because they were looking to get a taste at power, sprinkled with a dash of menace. Those didn’t make it far within his creed. A man without values is a man without much else. Anders was a man of the prior. The toughest, most loyal bastard Durven had the pleasure of knowing. He didn’t trust no man nor woman with his life, but Anders was as close as it got.

  Their procession wound its way through the streets, sucking and squelching in the mud, soft rain pelting down. Miserable little town this was. A few buildings squashed together, stinking little alleys hinting at obscurities best left undisturbed. Age-old smears and fresh mud spatter decorated the otherwise bare walls. Frail strings of smoke drifted from scattered chimneys. Distant wails drifted upon the breeze through the streets like some screeching violin.

  ‘Shitty little town,’ said Anders, echoing Durven’s thoughts, still casting those narrow eyes about. ‘Anyone who’d contend on the topic lacks cognitive acuity.’

  ‘No amount of debate can save this place,’ said Durven. ‘Do try not to read all my thoughts, however. I’d like to keep a few of them to myself.’

  ‘I try not to pry,’ replied Anders with a toothy grin.

  The streets were coming to life. People stretched on porches, scratched scraggy hair, began their daily commute. A variety of faces passed them by. Most hard, some soft. A few looked clean enough. Likely those had a roof over their heads, some coin for luxuries like soap. It was more than could be said for the majority of the sorry looking populace, stained clothes and dirt-smeared faces. Some faces were crying, silent tears that left clean streaks through dirty cheeks. Others sobbed as they sauntered by or sat with heads hung.

  People in the street gave Durven’s crew a wide berth. Cautious eyes trailed them from the crowd of onlookers to the sides. There were nods of recognition, mumbled greetings, most only stared. He tipped his head in passing.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ started Dimmy.

  ‘That’s a first,’ muttered Anders.

  ‘What’s a cog native?’

  Durven and Anders shared a look. Dimmy’s name sake was on full display.

  ‘Nothing you need burden your cogs with, Dimmy,’ answered Durven.

  ‘I just wonder sometimes, ya know,’ a real thoughtful look on his face. ‘All them big words Anders is always slungin’ about, really gets me thinking sometimes, “Is that man really as smart as he sounds or is he just puffin’ up?”’

  ‘I’ll admit, Dimmy,’ mused Anders with a dash of irony, ‘that’s a discerning deduction indeed. Got me thinking too now.’

  ‘See. What’s that even supposed to mean?’

  ‘Means you're coming to conclusions.’

  ‘Oh, aye, that I am,’ nodded Dimmy with a self-satisfied smile. ‘That you’re not as smart as you sound.’

  ‘Only a fool judges a man’s mind by the structure of his words. It's the message he gets across that matters.’ Anders shrugged. ‘Not my fault you miss the message half the time.’

  Dimmy frowned, opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly in doubt of how to follow that up.

  To Durven’s curiosity, among the people they passed, there were a few rarities that smiled at him. Whether they were grateful for his work – no matter how dark it may be – or whether it was out of fear, or whether they truly possessed a spark that few did, it made him smile in turn. Always good to see someone smile, to make someone smile. That goes double for times like these. If he could have a hand in bringing about some manner of joy, he’d gladly take it.

  Scattered about the general flock were the imperial soldiers. Damn pansies, the lot of them. They peered down their noses at everyone and did little in the way of helping, just standing there in their suits of armor. True, some would help here and there, loading or unloading goods, but that was about the extent of it. Mostly just stood and watched. Durven ran this town now. He kept the peace, did the dirty work so nobody else had to. They knew to keep their meddling to a minimum and they didn’t dare come near the inflicted neither. Shiny metal tended to get dirty rather fast, he reckoned. For them Durven reserved a mocking little smirk and inclined his head a tad lower than what was customary. They just looked on, but some had a fire light behind their eyes. Good.

  The rain was coming down hard now, soaking through his coat and into the layers underneath. It chaffed his thighs and set his skin to itching. Two weeks now the rain had fallen. So much fucking wet it was starting to grate on his nerves, for even someone as jolly as him had their limits.

  The street opened up to a sea of white tents. Smoke from morning campfires drifted above the ragged and torn, brown and filthy canvas. It was unnaturally silent here too – save for those encroaching wails – despite the plague of refugees. Too many to count. A writhing mass of flesh and fabric.

  People still. They were people still. People with lives and hopes and dreams. Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, children. So easy to forget when all you saw were numbers, blank and unrecognized faces. He had to remind himself sometimes. It’d be a lot easier to remember if they didn’t look so fucking hollow, so lost and despairing.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A month ago they were twice as many. A month from then they’d be twice as little. The Black Blight did not discriminate. You so much as touched another skin-to-skin and you’re, well, fucked. The sick weren’t kept around these parts. They had their own corner of misery. Didn’t stop the plague from spreading, though.

  Durven too was a refugee, if it was looked at from a funny angle. He didn’t do funny angles. Consummate survivors are what he would have called him and his crew. They forged the path, not the other way around. Men to take on the hard work, the bad work. Usually that meant lots of gold, benefits and respect. These days it meant a roof over his head and food for him and his men. He didn’t mind that much.

  They trudged past the last houses at the edge of town. Bigger than his they were, most of them. He’d been graciously offered a family of eight’s house – who now were all dead – but it didn’t sit right with him. These were dark days. The least one -

  A shrill cry split the cold air, then was cut off abruptly. Durven drew to a halt and his men pulled up short behind. He squinted in the direction the scream had originated from. Then it dawned on him.

  ‘My, my, my,’ he chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. ‘What did I tell that son of a bitch last time?’ Then louder, ‘Dimmy, you remember Rennel?’

  ‘I remember, Boss.’

  ‘Isn’t that his tent over there?’

  He followed his Boss’s pointed finger. Then his eyes lit up with recognition, hunger wrote across his face. ‘I don’t see how you could be mistaken, Boss.’

  ‘Fetch him for me, would you? No need to be nice about it either.’

  ‘Right ya are.’ And he zipped eagerly off into the mess of tents.

  Durven waited, thumbs hooked in his sword belt, shoulders slack. A murmur went through the crowd. Heads turned to whisper in the ear of their neighbors, people drawing closer like flies to a carcass. A few scurried off. The majority stayed. Curiosity truly was at the core of all humans.

  Sounds of grunts and a brief struggle, some rustling and a moment later Dimmy emerged from the sea of white. He had Rennel by the neck in an unforgiving grip, dragging him through the muck. Dimmy had a claw like that. Rennel made slobbering sounds through bloodied lips. His shirt was half on, trousers around his ankles trailing through the filth, his half-hard prick flailing about.

  A woman, eyes red with tears down her cheeks, arms littered with bruises, night dress torn, tailed at the back. She tried pulling up the broken straps, but to no avail. She resorted to crossing her arms across her exposed chest instead.

  Durven watched on in silence, hands easy by his belt, shoulders relaxed, eyes never straying from the convicted. Dimmy flung Rennel down in front of him. His face smacked into the mud with a wet slurp. The man weakly pushed himself to his knees while muttering obscenities. His hands came up to try and shield his turned face. Durven simply watched, thumbs hooked, shoulders slack, eyes locked. Rennel peered through the gaps in his fingers with trembling eyes and lips. Durven held his stare until those pathetic mumblings ceased and the man cast down his eyes.

  Durven next addressed the woman, ‘It was bad luck made you have a run in with this bastard,’ and he spat in the direction of Rennel.

  She had her eyes trained on the filth caked man, rubbing at her arms.

  ‘Bad luck is best kept under management, lest it starts to spread like the plague.’ Durven took a deep breath. ‘I can’t offer much in the way of solace, but I can give you justice.’

  She looked at him then with those red bloated eyes. He saw the rage in them, the hate, the thirst for violence. She didn’t speak. There was no need for it. He knew her answer. He nodded slowly, then turned back on Rennel.

  The man was groveling around in the mud, smeared from head to toe in brown. Dirty work indeed. But, to be honest, Durven wasn’t bothered. Not in the slightest.

  A few soldiers had joined the surrounding press. He could sense his men’s tension, fingers etching down to their swords’ grips, but the soldiers merely looked on, some faces even curious.

  Durven went down on his haunches. ‘Do you remember what I said to you last time, Rennel?’

  ‘Please! No, no, no, no, no,’ Rennel begged, shaking his head in denial, ‘I-I-I sw-swear, it wo-won’t happen -’

  Durven clicked his tongue. ‘What did I say last time, Anders?’

  ‘Said to skip town.’

  ‘Yet, here you are, three strikes down. One is the second chance we all deserve. Three is the jaws of terror yearning to tear your flesh from your bones.’

  The pleading turned maddened. Drooling, frothing, shaking, shrieking. He grabbed hold of Durven’s pants, begging, smeared muck all over it. Durven tended to lean towards the side of pragmatism. In his day-to-day life a force guided him. Fast. Efficient. But this was different. He might like to bring a smile to people's eyes, but he treasured witnessing the terror in a man's eyes that much more.

  He looked down at his newly muddied trousers and the cowering man there. He felt that devious grin spread across his face again, then leaned down to whisper, ‘I don’t mind getting dirty.’

  He grabbed Rennel by the throat, squeezed with all his strength. The man choked, swallowed his tongue, clawed weakly at Durven’s hands, veins and eyes bulging in his blood red face. He could feel the windpipe crack, then his fist crunched into the man’s face. His nose snapped like a twig, blood spurting across both their faces. Another blow. More blood gushed across that fleshy canvas. Rennel had gone slack, hands dropped to his sides. Then another hit. His eye socket cracked inward. Hit. Teeth split and gums tore. Punch. Lips split like bursting watermelon. Smack. Hit. Punch.

  Crack, crack, crack, like the rhythm of a drum beat.

  Crack crack crack crack crack crack crack crack, like the pounding of a hammer on a nail.

  CRACK!

  Durven let the limp corpse slip from his grasp, righting himself. The face was an unrecognizable pulp. His raw knuckles stung like fire. He breathed hard through his nose, then drew in a lungful of that delightful tonic, foul smelling though it may be. Then, on a primal urge, he stomped his boot down on that disfigured head. Once, twice, three times and the skull burst, brains splatting across the mud, one eye popping from its socket.

  Durven stared down, regarding his handiwork. Fine work indeed. If not a bit dirty. He was covered from head to toe in blood. Smoothed his hair back even so, the smell of iron thick on him and the air. He looked up to find everyone staring at him. Horrified was the broad consensus, but scattered in between were looks of amusement, disgust and even a handful of admiration.

  ‘Right,’ announced Durven, hands on hips, ‘Bring along the body, fellas. He can burn with the rest.’

  ?

  It was nigh on noon by the time they arrived at their destination, the cart with Rennel’s corpse rattling along at the back. Extra bodies were collected along the road, grim looking refugees piling more on top as Durven’s gang rolled past.

  A gathering of people encircled a tall, mound-like structure in the midst of a clearing. Off to the left in the distance were more tents, far away from the main body of refugees: the afflicted's camp. Calling it a camp was being generous. Those caught with the Blight did little else but lay and wait to die. The first two days you still had some functionality. The third and fourth it took hold of your muscles, nothing to do but die in slow agony, not even able to scream or move your lips. The fifth was the worst. Instead of going out quietly due to the loss of muscle and nerve, the infection played a last act of cruelty and seemed to bestow back some use of the victim’s body, like some twisted torturer handing out false hope only to trick you with more suffering. The sick spent their last hour writhing about, distorted sounds emanating from some place within. Black goo leaked from any and every orifice. Then they were gone.

  That was where Durven and his boys came in. Other than maintaining some semblance of order in the town, they were responsible for taking care of those cursed with the disease. Taking care in the sense of putting them out of their misery, if they so wished, or at the behest of a loved one. There was no cure other than sharp metal. It was grueling work. Stinking work. No pleasure in it. More dangerous than any blade or weapon. They donned full body suits and plague masks, careful not to let an inch of flesh show. There have been few casualties among his men, usually those hasty in their work. Couldn’t blame them. After the first few dropped, men took considerable more care not to skim over the safety procedures. There was a separate sect of his crew that gathered the bodies. And brought them here.

  As they drew closer, the structure’s true nature was revealed: a mountain of corpses, casting a fat shadow over the throng, like some grand monument to an evil entity. Thousands upon thousands of the dead, any features lost in the mass. His guts gave a gentle twist. Behind him he heard one of his boys retch. Durven could beat a man to death without so much as a remorseful thought. This was different.

  He held up a hand for his men to wait, only Anders with him as he made his way to the front of the gathering. He folded his hands in front of him, a gesture of honoring the dead. The gathering stood sullen, eyes glazed over. A frail looking man, deep creases on his face, caught his eye. Durven nodded. The man came forward to stand upon the brink of the mass grave.

  ‘Let us look upon the lost,’ his voice rang out, ‘and remember not how they were in death, but how they were in life. Let their passing not be in vain, for life is for those that still draw breath. Hug your loved ones, smile at your neighbor, for it is a privilege the living alone possess.’ He hung his head then and a long quiet followed. Silent sobs among the crowd, a cawing crow high above, rustling leaves stirred by the breeze. ‘Let them now pass from this world in fire, to find peace amidst the fields of a happier place.’ Someone handed him a torch. ‘Salvation in surrender, damnation in denial.’

  ‘Salvation in surrender, damnation in denial,’ the crowd echoed with a murmur.

  The old man tossed the torch on the pyre and retreated quickly as the mound burst aflame. Durven watched as the flames leapt up, reaching for the sky like grasping fingers, a gentler rain now flitting down. Him and Anders stood as the gathering slowly diminished until only a handful remained. A woman approached them, mid thirties maybe, wet streaks down her cheeks.

  ‘Do you remember my boy?’ she asked Durven plainly.

  He racked his brain, trying to place her face. ‘Olia, if my memory serves me right.’

  She gave a weak smile. ‘That’s right. He was the joy of the household. Always ready with a smile, always cracked a silly joke when the mood was at its lowest.’ She turned her head and put a hand to her mouth, fresh tears welling up at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘I’m sure he brought a smile wherever he went,’ croaked Durven, caught off guard.

  ‘He was but twelve when the world took him from me.’ She took a shuddering breath, wiped away a tear. ‘I wanted to thank you… for easing his suffering. I know the work you and your men do is frowned upon, but I appreciate it, even if no one else does.’

  She left them in silence. Durven looked on after her as her frame shrunk, eventually turned to a dot in the distance, presumably on the way back to the purgatory of tents. Only woe awaited there.

  ‘You alright?’ came Anders’ throaty voice.

  It was the first time since Durven had started his work here – maybe the first time in his line of work altogether – that someone had thanked him for it. Thanked him out of grace, not fear.

  His limbs were heavy of a sudden, his brain pounding behind his eyes, his knuckles throbbing something fierce. The acrid smoke was now clawing at his throat. He wanted to lie down real bad just then.

  ‘No need to worry yourself, brother,’ he said, eyes still lingering on the horizon. ‘A bit tired, is all.’