Book of The Dead

The wheels creaked ominously as they rattled over the half-sunk stones that littered the road. Not for the first time that day, Elsbeth had to slap a hand to her head to keep her hood from falling, and another hand to the post beside her so she didn’t fall from her seat. She’d learned from experience that Munhilde wouldn’t stop the wagon when she lost her perch, expecting her to catch up and jump back on.

“Figure it out yourself” seemed to be a way of life for the older woman.

“Do you think we’ll be stopping soon?” she asked, working to inject some cheer into her voice.

“Not long,” Munhilde grunted, “Long Field farmstead about thirty minutes away.”

Then silence.

She was a woman of few words, this priestess of the dark gods. Elsbeth found getting information from her was akin to pulling teeth. Since she’d hoped that this person would be her teacher and mentor, she was endlessly frustrated with her lack of progress.

Patience, she schooled herself.

If she wasn’t being told much, there had to be a reason for that. Maybe she was simply supposed to learn by watching. Except it had been weeks since they had left the village behind, and she had learned almost nothing!

Patience is a virtue, but she felt she was quickly running out of hers.

In truth, she hadn’t learned nothing. The two had spent their time travelling between remote villages and farmsteads where they were always welcomed, if somewhat reticently. Munhilde would speak to people, tend to illnesses with poultices and herbs that she kept in the wagon, peddle goods and exchange news.

In many ways, they were like travelling peddlers, and Elsbeth had found the experience to be pleasant. She met new people, cared for the horses, Tum and Rum, and slept in the wagon at night. It was peaceful, it was quiet, and she felt she was helping people.

But what had been shocking had been the number of people they met who spoke to her teacher about the Dark Gods. Men and women, old and young, came forward to converse with her in hushed and reverent tones, asking for blessings, asking for intercession or for prayer.

Elsbeth hadn’t known what she’d expected to see in the followers of the Three. Somehow, she’d thought they would look different, been marked apart from the others, but, of course, they weren’t. She would never have known of these people’s secret faith if she hadn’t come in the company of a Priestess of the Dark.

Which was also her class now.

The revelation, when she had finally completed the status ritual and saw it written down on the page, had been bittersweet. Things had not worked out the way she’d hoped, but she had still found gods who were willing to accept her. Just not among the Pantheon she’d worshipped all her life.

“Have you spent time with these people recently?” Elsbeth continued in her dogged attempt to draw her teacher into conversation, the bright smile on her face showing perhaps a few more teeth than she intended.

“I haven’t seen Long Field for two years,” Munhilde replied after thinking for a moment, then fell back into silence.

Elsbeth felt her face start to hurt.

“Is there anything you can tell me about the people we might meet there?” she asked cheerfully.

She tried to say it cheerfully. Her teacher eyed her for a moment before she snorted.

“Avery runs the place, generally speaking. He’s a good enough sort, for a follower of the Rot,” she said.

Elsbeth almost jumped. The other woman seldom mentioned anything to do with the gods without being prompted.

“Do they tend to have a particular temperament then? The people who worship Rot?”

She spoke as casually as she could, fearful that her teacher would clam up. Munhilde grimaced.

“There’s a certain outlook that comes from being close to it. It’s not uncommon for farmers who follow the Dark to go that way. Any sort of job where your hands are wrist deep in the cycle of life and death tends to have Rot worshippers amongst them. Tanners, Butchers, Lumberers and the sort. Healers too.”

“Healers?” Elsbeth was surprised. “I thought they would want to avoid decay as much as possible.”

“Everything is in a state of decay,” Munhilde shook her head, her eyes still on the road before them. “From the moment we are born to the moment we die and then well afterward, we are rotting. This goes for all things living or dead. Even stone is subject to erosion, being worn down over time. Nothing is permanent in this realm or any other.”

“It sounds… a rather unpleasant way to look at the world,” Elsbeth hesitated to say. “Is there no hope or joy found in creation?”

Munhilde spat over the side of the wagon. Rum flicked her tail at the wet sound.

“That’s nonsense talk of the five. It’s not unpleasant, or bad, or good, or anything of the sort. It just is. Talking pretty words like hope and joy don’t change what is. It’s only when we accept the way of our world that we can start to do something with it. There is no room in the thoughts of the Dark Ones for wishing. Acknowledge reality and move from there.”

This was more than the older woman had said on the subject of their shared gods for days and Elsbeth listened with a keen ear. She didn’t always like what she heard about those she served, but she never ignored it.

This certainly fit what she knew of them already. The Three were cold, indifferent gods, uninterested in changing the day to day reality of the people who worshipped them. In many ways, they were alien, completely divorced from the human experience that she and others shared with the Five Divines.

It gave her pause.

“Why do people worship the Three?” she asked, her voice low, and reflective. “They don’t like to answer prayers, they don’t like to help people. What do their followers gain?”

It was a thought she’d had several times but hadn’t been bold enough to utter out loud. Now that her teacher was in such a talkative mood, she dared to ask for an answer.

To her surprise, Munhilde actually laughed. She’d never heard this woman laugh in a month!

“You followers of the five imposters are all the same,” she wheezed. “You view your ‘gods’ in such a transactional way. What can I get out of it? What’s in it for me? How are they going to help and influence my life? Pah!”

She spat again.

“Do you expect a real god, a truly divine being, to fly down from the sky and ask for your devotion? To bargain like a street whore? Don’t be ridiculous. We worship them because that is what they deserve, and because they are beings of whim. There is no harm in currying favour with beings so much greater than ourselves.”

The older woman eyed her sideways.

“They are not above bestowing gifts on those who serve them well, you know. I, for example, received a blessing of the Crone many years ago.”

As much as she wanted to ask, Elsbeth held her tongue. It wasn’t her place to ask for such personal information. Even if she burned to know. Munhilde watched her wrestle herself for a full minute before she sighed.

“You’re damned nice. I don’t think I’ve ever met a Priest or Priestess of theirs who was so pleasant in my entire life.”

She looked pensive for a moment before she shrugged to herself.

“Perhaps that explains their interest in you. They want to make the first ever kind Priestess of the Dark.”

“I wish that was the reason.…” Elsbeth muttered.

Munhilde waited for the girl to elaborate, only to be met with silence. So she clicked her tongue and urged the horses up the broken road.

“Nearly there,” she said, “you can see the farmhouses up there, clustered around each other. We’d be there already if the roads hadn’t been torn up by the kin.”

Elsbeth grew quiet when the rift-kin were mentioned. They had heard word of the break just in time to seek refuge in a nearby village. It had been a horrible sight. She shuddered to recall it.

“Wait.” Something in Munhild’s tone brought her from her introspection. “Something’s off.”

When Elsbeth studied the distant buildings more carefully, she could see the damage. Broken window frames, cracked masonry and shattered tiles evidenced the carnage that had swept through this area.

“It seems they suffered dreadfully during the break,” she said softly.

“Not that,” Munhilde snapped, “look at the fences.”

She did, puzzled.

“They’re broken. Is that shocking?”

“They should be fixed by now. Even right up next to the farmhouses, they haven’t been repaired. Avery runs a tight ship up here, there’s no chance he would have let things lie for this long.”

With a pull on the reins the horses stopped and the two Priestesses waited and watched the houses in the distance. The younger with a quizzical expression, the other more irritated.

“Hold on a moment,” Munhilde muttered before she closed her eyes.

Communing with the Dark Gods was nothing like what Elsbeth was used to. Her teacher needed no kneeling or elaborate ceremony to speak with them. In a rare moment of generosity, Munhilde had confessed that she didn’t so much “speak” to them as gain an impression of what they wanted to convey, which was usually nothing.

She held her breath as the other woman sat, hands folded in her lap and eyes closed, communing with powers older than civilisation. Finally, she breathed out a long sigh and urged Tum and Rum on again.

“There had to be a reason they pulled me out this way,” she said. “This might be an eye-opening experience for you, girl.”

Something about her expression told Elsbeth that questions wouldn’t be welcome, so she steeled herself and kept her eyes open as they approached. Surprisingly, there were no signs of life within the compound until they were right on top of it.

“Wait right there!” A woman yelled down from the second floor as they entered the shadow of the building. “I have an arrow trained on you. Identify yourself.”

“Annette Avery. You should recognise the woman who married you,” Munhilde huffed, scowling up at the window. “Put that bow down before you hurt yourself.”

A scrambling could be heard overhead.

“Is that you, Priestess?” the same voice asked, shocked.

“Obviously. Are you going to show your face or am I going to talk to an open window?”

“I’ll be right down!”

A minute later, a red-faced middle-aged woman raced between the buildings to stand beside the horses and stare up at them. A myriad of emotions passed over her face and then, taking Elsbeth by surprise, she burst into tears.

Munhilde climbed down from the cart and folded the wailing farmwife in a tender embrace.

“There, there,” she said. “I can see you’ve been through a great deal. Let’s go inside and you can tell me all about it.”

“No, no,” Annette cried, “it’s the boy! Please, Priestess, you have to heal him!”

Minutes later, they stood over the sweating, pale form of a young man, unconscious in bed. His breath came in shallow gasps as he lolled back and forth, his limbs trembling at the extremities.

And six undead skeletons watched them, their eyes burning with purple light.

Elsbeth brushed away the tears welling in her eyes as she looked down at Tyron.

“We have to heal him,” she pleaded with her teacher, “I know him.”

The Priestess stared at her with hooded eyes.

“The Dark Ones are known to grant favours,” she said, “but always for a price.”