Hil preserve me, Henri Cruz thought. I am going to die.

His heartbeat thundered in his temples, fueling the ringing in his ears. The immense weight of the wooden chest atop him crushed the air out of him, causing each breath to come in short, ragged bursts. Porcelain shrapnel from the tiny figurines of sheep, bulls, and other animals stuck out of his skin, painfully digging in further as he desperately gasped to refill his lungs. The scent of dust and smoke filled his mouth but there was something else, too. The smell was pungent and powerful, like the scent of unwashed skin and sweat mixed with something foul… something rotting. He swallowed to keep himself from gagging. A tickling sensation teased over his forehead and cheek, wet and worrisome. Henri knew he was bleeding but couldn’t tell where or how badly. 

The ringing in his ears faded, only to be replaced by the sounds of rabid sniffing and the smacking of wet lips and slavering. The weight above him shifted and excited hissing filled the darkness around him. Fear pinned his limbs in place as the pressure from above increased; more of them were climbing onto his cabinet prison. Breathing grew more painful, a sharp stabbing in his chest as the air vanished from his lungs again. Panic prickled along his neck and Henri became desperate to flee, but the fear of what was above him kept him there. Henri could only imagine their faces sniffing the air like animals. They were searching for something. Were they searching for him?

Henri’s life flashed before his eyes, a desperate last bid to find a way out of his situation. A few hours prior, Henri had arrived in the town of Paraíso Verde to buy supplies for the family. They had just celebrated his twenty-second birthday that summer. He had put the errand off all week until his mother threatened to beat him with her shoe. Amusing as the thought was he knew better. He did not want to anger the woman who made the meals for the family. That never ended well.

He had left their small farm near the village after the sun peaked overhead. The trek into town had only taken about an hour. There would have been plenty of time to collect what his family needed for the month and still make a special stop. He had recalled Isabella might be working at the mercantile next to the butcher's shop today, so he’d worn his nice vest over his faded linen shirt and styled his dark hair. Maybe he could talk her into an early supper before he had to return. It would be after dark when he set off, but the Valley had been peaceful for years.

He had just loaded up the wagon with the last of the purchases when he saw it. Two horses raced down the main street towing a blazing carriage. He and everyone else on the street had watched the scene in stunned silence. The daydream-like atmosphere was broken when two passengers jumped from the carriage and landed on the pavement. One passenger had on flashy clothing that suggested they had money. The other person was filthy and unkempt. Their face was covered in deep crimson blood. Henri watched as the person looked up and then all around. Their eyes were black, almost lifeless. Henri had never seen that sort of expression before. The injured person glanced down at their companion and flipped them onto their back. At first, Henri had thought they were smiling but the smile was wrong. It was too wide and too unnerving. Then they bit into their companion's throat. The man convulsed and tried to scream but the only sound was a gurgle as his body shook.

Across the street a woman screamed, drawing Henri’s attention away from the scene before him. An unkempt man and woman were running toward the shrieking woman. Like the blood-covered man in the carriage, they wore tattered and dirty clothes. In one swift movement, they knocked their prey to the ground. One bit into her throat and the other bit into the side of her face, tearing the flesh of her cheek away. Henri had forced himself to look away from the increasing carnage. He peered down the street and observed several more of these creatures. They were running impossibly fast and tackling anyone who stood in their path. Somehow, Henri had noticed a single person standing tall on a rooftop while the crowd of creatures approached. He felt the person’s eyes upon him, though he could not make out their face.

Terror overwhelmed Henri and he ran back into the butcher’s shop, slamming the door behind him. He spun on his heel and saw Koran the Butcher, who had a knife in his hand and a look of fright in his eyes. The paralyzing blend of shrieks and unearthly cries from the outdoors was enough to rattle even the bravest of men.

“I’m bolting the door!” Henri said as he slid the wooden bar into place. “Secure the bar…”

An explosion shook the building, interrupting his sentence. The glass-paneled cabinet had taken him by surprise, blown free from its resting place by the explosion and trapping him beneath it. 

“Mr. Cruz? Henri, are you okay?”

Henri could hear the scuffle and crunch of feet against the floor and glass, but it ended the moment he heard Koran’s voice cry, “Stay away! All of you stay back!” Henri envisioned

Koran holding a huge knife or maybe even two. If Koran could make it to the back, he could take refuge in his cold room. Henri realized the horde had discovered the butcher as Koran’s menacing yells became cries of anguish and terror. The butcher’s voice faded away and was replaced by the sounds of excited hissing and sniffing, bringing Henri back to his present situation. 

The pressure of the cabinet against his chest changed, growing lighter than it had been. The shelves lilted from side to side as a single person deliberately paced the length of his prison. The hissing and sniffing stopped suddenly. Whoever this was, was important. Henri held his breath and tried to remain silent while staring into the darkness. The entity above him paced back and forth, taking its time as if waiting him out. He felt a sudden sting in his eyes and he shut both of them. He thought it was sweat and tried to rub it away, but his fingers caught a piece of shrapnel and spread fresh blood along with the old across his face. A wave of frenzied sniffing and hissing filled the room again. 

Blood. They smelled the blood. His blood. 

They all piled onto the cabinet again and Henri’s terror grew. It was only a matter of time before they found him and ate him like they had the others. Only a matter of time before he became one of them. His thoughts were chilling, but he knew he’d rather be dead than there for what was coming. 

Evil had resurfaced and all of them were doomed.

***

The constant jolting of the buckboard made for a very unpleasant journey. Lyric shifted around in the seat beside the Guild driver, trying to find a spot that would not cause her tender backside to bruise any further. The four of them had been on the road together for two days now. The driver at her side had collected her from the University Library in Valle Espino, Thorn Valley, several days before meeting up with the other two in their group.

Lyric carried a simple traveler’s pack and bedroll, pocket coin enough for her journey, and the instruments of her calling: pen, ink, and paper. Lyric was an Imperial Scribe. She recorded everything that transpired - no detail too small, no fact too obvious. She recently had her twentieth birthday, signaling that it was time for her Verdad, her “moment of truth”. Each servant of the Imperium had to undergo their own Prueba - a search for Truth; this was hers. The outcome of this journey would determine if she succeeded, and could advance to the position of Historian, or if she would remain a simple Scribe for the Library.

The driver seated to her left on the buckboard seat kept her eyes on the road ahead of them, as she had since collecting Lyric from the steps of the Library. Luz Wheeler was a stoic woman and a credit to her Guild. She was pleasant enough and had shared several stories with Lyric along the way. Stories of various encounters that she and her fellow Guild members had experienced along this stretch of road from Valle Espino to Paraíso Verde. Most of these tales involved defending their charges from highwaymen. Lyric wondered if there was some romantic twist on a few of them, based on the twinkle in Luz’s eyes as she told them. Occasionally, however, there were encounters far less pleasant. Encounters involving creatures and creations from a war some three hundred years passed.

The Corpse Wars.

It was because of these potential encounters that the other two travelers were part of this detail. Individuals trained to handle the remnants of the War. Remnants that often included the undead.

Lyric moved a bit and put her hip on the side of the seat to ease some of the strain and then looked at her two traveling acquaintances, who were sitting in the back of the wagon.

The Inquisition of Hil was formed during the height of the Corpse Wars. They were persons called to serve the God Hil, the personification of Light and Creation. Regardless of sex or gender, those called into Hil’s Faithful Service swore to defend the living from the taint of evil and undeath. Scribes were tenderly invited to join a mission alongside Hil's most faithful. It gave them an appreciation for the world that existed beyond the protection of high walls and palace guards.

The woman introduced herself as Esperanza Boyorquez, a healer, and Voice for Hil’s most faithful. She had a peaceful demeanor that was both calming and reassuring. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight, no-nonsense bun. Her vestments were simple and unadorned; an off-white linen robe over which was an equally unassuming thigh-length tunic dyed a faded saffron yellow-orange. The over-tunic was split up the side to allow movement, and the full-length sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, displaying a soft tan cotton lining.

Where Esperanza brought a sense of comfort, the person she was with, Jalin Cortez, did not. He sat with a pocket stone in hand and was honing a long blade. His leather pants were stained with road dirt, oil, and other things Lyric dared not ask about. Various stitches and patch jobs covered his pants, showing either a lack of wealth or a predisposition to getting the most out of an object before discarding it. His threadbare cotton shirt was worn open at the neck, hints of scarred flesh peering out from within. Across his lap was draped a leather long coat, equally worn and patched. A pair of goggles with multiple lenses hung around his neck. An unruly mop of hair was slicked back and held in place at the nape of his neck with a tight leather thong. If Lyric considered him long enough, she would have to describe his features, like his clothing: well worn.

Lyric had observed the two of them for the past several hours as they sat across from each other in an almost palpable silence. The woman had a sober expression. Lyric noticed her subtle body language; feet turned slightly away, eyes half-lidded, chin tilted ever-so-slightly up. Esperanza Boyorquez wanted nothing to do with Jalin Cortez.

Two days back, when they had collected the pair of Inquisitors and the supplies in the back of the wagon, the sky had been a blend of dark lilac and sky blue. It was supposed to be a basic supply run to some outlying Shrines. Nothing adventurous. Nothing calling for a full retinue or compliment of attendants. A simple task along an established trade route. The perfect mission for a young Scribe to experience the outside world, before being cloistered away again with her books and manuscripts.

The sun had yet to peek over the horizon as the wagon clattered and bounced across a long wooden bridge. Lyric tucked a red curl back behind her ear that had come dislodged in the jostling of the ride. The water below the bridge added to the chill of the sunless sky overhead. She wished she had thought to pack a hat.

Boyorquez tucked her hands under her arms for warmth. Her eyes examined the man across from her for a moment and then fixated on a place on the horizon. Lyric had the feeling Boyorquez wanted nothing more than to push Cortez off the wagon and into the river. She marveled at the peculiar coupling and wondered what had happened between them to cause Boyorquez to clearly detest her partner.

Lyric’s green eyes wandered over to the figure of Cortez. Currently, he wasn't engaging in anything particularly objectionable. He was simply sharpening his blade. A blade whose edge could have easily split a hair, yet Cortez continued to sharpen its deadly edge. It seemed simple weapons upkeep.

Esperanza Boyorquez’s official title was the Voice of Hil, but the title meant more than just a specific form of address. The Faithful of Hil came in many forms. A few were extraordinarily devout, while some had difficulty with basic prayer and worship. By Hil’s blessing, Esperanza was granted the power to use Their Gifts to defeat those who defiled the world of the living. She carried Hil’s Voice within her mortal frame.

Jalin Cortez was a different story.

The Ministry of Hil had long ago realized the need for strong hands and cold hearts. Cortez was not touched by Hil. He was not blessed with any divine or magical gifts. What he was, was extremely proficient in mercenary work and deeply devout.

Lyric had asked Luz one evening about their escorts. In a guarded tone, the driver had shared that Cortez was rumored to have weathered a lycanthrope pandemic, battled a ghoul infestation, and extinguished three rogue mages, one being a Fire Singer. Whispers followed his name, “killer” and “murderer”. But to the Chosen of Hil, he was simply Justice.

With the intention of either complicating the situation or easing the atmosphere, Lyric was not entirely sure of which, Jalin began to softly whistle as he worked. The tune was difficult to decipher. It could have been filled with sorrow, regret, or even acceptance. Looking up, he made eye contact with Esperanza and smiled at her. It was not an earnest smile. It was the smile of someone who knew he was hated and did not care.

Lyric watched as he continued to sharpen his scoring blade. That wasn't the correct name for the weapon. It was a form of short sword. A thin blade with a razor-sharp edge. Cortez’s scoring blade was unique. Strapped to his forearm, it was locked in a specialized set of gears. With the correct movement, the sharpened metal would snap forward, and the extended blade would lock in place. This extension would allow its user to move the blade with a more refined accuracy in a fight. Its blade bore not only steel but a silvered treatment, as well as the blessing of the Hil. Such gifts made it a formidable weapon in his hands.

Lyric cast a glance over her shoulder, smiling as if she hadn't noticed the disagreement between the Inquisitors. “I apologize, Inquisitor Cortez, but what is the tune? It sounds beautiful; does it have any words?”

Cortez looked up and for a moment and weighed the Scribe’s words, as if trying to gauge her sincerity. Staring at her, he managed to politely force out, “It is… it is an older song”.

Lyric could tell Cortez was used to having his methods questioned, but asking about his off-duty habits confused him. While not detrimental, it was a small piece of information that she made certain to take note of.

“It’s beautiful, sir,” Lyric said in thanks and turned her attention back to the road. She remembered her grandparent’s quiet arguments. There was no yelling, just busy work, and distraction. She remembered watching her grandmother angrily folding hand towels toward her grandfather. Nary a word was exchanged, but the sentiment was conveyed.

“Signs up ahead say that we should hit Paraíso Verde shortly. Smoke ahead says within the …” Luz paused, and took a deep inhale, scenting the wind and the smoke. The Guild driver turned and looked at Lyric and then back to the pair of Inquisitors, “There may be an issue.”

Cortez and Boyorquez looked up at each other, their unspoken battles fallen to the wayside at that moment, then back at the driver. “Proceed with haste,” Esperanza ordered.

Whipping the horses, the wagon lurched forward with increased speed. Lyric felt the tension that had plagued them the last two days fade. She sensed fear emanating from Luz. Cortez's excitement was increasing - his instinct for the hunt was being triggered by signs of trouble. He was already taking out a pack and strapping on his gear. Esperanza's face was filled with fear and worry.

As their wagon sped along toward its destination, Lyric tried to recall what she knew about the village ahead.

Paraíso Verde was not a simple hamlet. It was an agricultural and farming center for the area. Cattle and grain were both provided from the rich and fertile valley. While not as wealthy as the Kingdom of the Reach, Paraíso Verde's soil was the richest on this side of the Vargas Mountain Range. It was also the final agricultural settlement along the southern border of the Imperium, before the rocky peninsula of The Reach. The only thing south of this location was the small township of Carver's Town and the border Outpost Ultimo. Carver's Town was a village that consisted of a handful of families. They all worked and lived together in their communal town center. Unlike Paraíso Verde, where many families controlled vast acreages of land and came into town to do their business. The Outpost was a military installation overseen by the Imperium and the Kingdom of the Reach. A minor trade outpost, it acted as a point of first engagement if there were any issues with the Kaxians to the far south.

Lyric considered the smoke ahead of them and their location. Should this be the Kaxians, then this supply run could be the first warning of an act of war.