[Arry]

Wulfham

Dead sheep were one thing . . . the bodies of men, women, and children another. It was the natural course of things for sheep to be killed as they pastured. Hungry predators would come hunting them, waiting carefully for their chance to spring upon a straggler. Then the body of the sheep would be dragged off and eaten. And there was the difference. The sheep were food; they sustained the wolf, or cat, or even eagle carrying off a spring lamb. But these poor souls, they were killed for darker purposes, in the service of that Lord of the Shadowed Lands. And for sport, too. Brands stomach lurched a number of times at the ways in which the bodies had been hacked up and displayed. It was a depth of foulness he could not fathom, nor did he want to.

Brand pulled on his thick leather gloves and tied a triangle of cloth he’d torn from a clean sheet as a mask for his nose and mouth. The thought of touching the dead flesh made his skin crawl. Still, he steeled himself to the task, knowing that his family would not want to be left in such shameful disarray; it would dishonor them.

They found one large, low-sided wagon that looked as if it had once been used for haying. One of the men took charge of the horses, keeping them calm as they went slowly through the death glutted streets. The other helped Brand swing the bodies up onto the wagon bed, sometimes using a strong woolen blanket as a sling for the larger ones.

It was a slow job, and often they had to stop to drink a little water to soothe their ashy-parched throats, or to clean their eyes of sooty debris. Or sometimes it was simply that they had to retch . . . the sight of some horribly killed person just too much to bear. The grisly job of transporting the dead to the center of the village ate up most of the daylight hours left to them. And in fact the sun was already setting as they finished, leaving only a pink glow that created the setting for a somber mood.

Still in his ashy clothes, his face grimy with sweat, soot, and dirt Arry took his place near the still unlit pyre. He’d taken off his gloves and stuffed them in his belt. In the middle layers, near him, was the body of a man he guessed to be near his own age. The man’s eyes were open and he seemed to be staring upward toward the darkened sky. One arm was flung outward from the pyre as if reaching out for help. Unthinking, Brand reached out to tuck arm against the man’s side; and with his fingers he shut the poor fellow’s eyes. A few words, unbidden, came to his lips. He had heard his father say them when they had gone to the funeral of one of their close neighbors. Brand spoke them quietly now, and with a simple sincerity.

Wes þū hāl! Ferðu, ferðu . . . Be thou well! Go, go . . .

As he stepped back, from the corner of his vision he saw Incana step forward with a burning brand.