Áed woke from his uneasy sleep when a flash of sunlight hit him in the face. Sara let go of the curtain and went back to her breakfast. She seemed to be feeling much better than she had in the morning. “You could have woken me”, Áed complained, still feeling drowsy. The bench was hard, his limbs ached, but saints, would he have liked to lie longer still.

“I have.” Sara grinned at him, but then quickly became grave again. “We should leave soon and get as far away from here as possible. I don’t want us to be picked up if word gets out who we are.”

“I agree. Where to, then?”, he prompted and took a piece of smoked bacon. This breakfast was far better than the rations they had been fed with for the last couple of months. He would not miss out on that. “Southbound to the free cities? Osena maybe? The Grave of Titans? I’ve been told the cities in the sky are gorgeous - dwarven masterwork. Or do you want to go east? The Haphas is well disposed towards the Empire. I don’t think anyone would bat an eye if two humans more or less mingled with the felines.”

“Merun”, came her short but definite reply.

“Merun? Are you fucking serious? Has the blood loss taken your mind?” Áed was stunned. Hadn't all their efforts been aimed at preventing exactly that?

“I got business there still, that…” She trailed off. Considered. “...and now it’s more pressing than before.” She looked directly at him. There would be no discussion. “It is paramount that I reach Merun. Or I hope it still is when I get there.” A heavy burden hung on every sentence; each one passed her lips with great thought, but only with difficulty.

Áed sighed. “All right, fine by me. You ride to Merun. As you wish. What about– What about whatever overran Cruidín?”  He wanted to steer the conversation in a different direction. He had nothing more to say about Merun. This direction was no less unpleasant however.

“I've never seen shit like that before. When I saw the first one– Holy flame! They were already behind the palisades when I saw them. I don't know how they got in. And– They were eating.” In her eyes Áed saw the spectacle of bodies and blood and desperate screams.

“And if that is what the elves fled from? Dashed themselves against our lines again and again because of that. Threw themselves at death’s mercy?” He had not intended to speak this open. He didn’t know how she might react to it. How faithfully she followed the emperor and his orders.

“Yes. So what? Does that change anything? Does it make you feel better to have run as well?”

To that Áed found no reply. None he wanted to speak out loud. So they finished their breakfast in silence. There was nothing to salvage their spirits now. When they were done, they packed as much supplies as they thought they needed and wrapped it in cloth. They couldn’t find any bags so they would just have to tie it to their saddles as is. The sun now stood at its zenith, high in the sky, but still could not assert itself against the chill and clouds, but at least they wouldn’t have to feel could now, even if the occasional gust of wind get through their coats.

They had just finished stowing the last of their baggage when Áed raised his hand and motioned to Sara to be still. They had just been talking about what they would do next when they reached the town - or the village; they had at least agreed that the first thing they should do was find out where they were. After that, their paths diverged. That was fine by him. He would not follow her to Merun. Then Áed had thought he had heard something. They broke off their conversation immediately and listened. Áed had not imagined it. He heard something behind the stable; something scratching over rough wood. He drew the knife he had also taken from the owner of the millhouse and crept along the stable. He lurked round the corner and cursed the saint of luck and misfortune.

There, behind the stable, in the grass and muck and on withered leaves, a man sat leaning his shoulder against the wall as if wanting to rest. He looked so exhausted, sunken into himself. Then Áed noticed the grey hair, plastered to his skull red-brown; his blank stare; the monotonous, absent movement. And then the horrors of Cruidín. He stumbled back. Where blood had dried on the old man’s body, there was no more flesh, but oily-black-shimmering carapace. His jaw hung down limply in two. And it was no hand scratching the weathered wood, leaving bright marks. From a stump of torn skin and torn muscle and splintered bone there jutted forth a thorn of the same disgusting mass, smudged rusted-brown.

Áed hurried back to Sara. “We have to go!” His heart beating wild in his chest. At Sara's uncomprehending look, he added: “The miller is one of those things!”

“Indeera, why?!”, she cursed. “We have to warn them!”

Before Áed could stop here or even had the chance to ask what in all the hells she was talking about, Sara drove her horse across the bridge. A thunder of hoofbeats. He followed. Along the path, away from the mill, away from the forest behind it, in which gods knew what was hiding, and away from the river that had shown them the way for hours. And in time the path widened, became a road, cut through the landscape like a scar, dividing fields and meadows, cutting through a small, old forest with trees so tall that they could ride comfortably underneath their branches, crossing brooks and another river. And then they reached a fork in the road with two signs pointing the way. Dubnagh and Moore. And behind them was a scene straight out of the War of the Gods – or Cruidín.

The palisades - probably erected in fear of the elves - had collapsed in parts, torn down. People fled the village through the open gate. Those who were not quick enough ended up like countless others: With entrails exposed under the dull autumn sun, with blood quenching the cold earth's thirst, with glassy eyes and choked off screams and helpless whimpers. With teeth and claw and mandible digging through their open bellies, not yet dead and never again alive. 

“We’re too late”, Áed shouted, but Sara didn’t hear him or didn’t want to. She rode on. A straight line for the open gate; for the hell beyond. “Sara!” He cursed. He cursed louder. He chased after her. This was an incredibly stupid idea. There was nothing for them to do here. People were running for their lives on both sides and they rode straight through the gate into the chaos of what might have been an idyllic village just a few hours ago. A cacophony of a thousand cries hung in the air; where one broke off, another began; an endless chorus of the lost. They rode along the street, through the thick of it, right up to the fountain in the centre of the market square. Again and again they came across these things with their black carapaces, which tried to chase them and then quickly gave up when they found an easier mark. Others they found already hunched over their prey, feeding. They scarcely found inhabitants of this village alive. Those who had made it out might have a chance, but here between the houses lay only the dead and dying.

Áed had seen death in his months on the frontier, had shaken hands with the reaper, had cut stalks in his harvest. But this sight made him feel sick, tightened his throat, made his heart hammer wildly in his chest and cut the edges of his vision black. “Sara!” She didn’t hear him. Thick, fleshy strings hung between red-tainted teeth, dripping, falling back into the body to which they belonged. The flesh put up resistance; it tore. Áed spurred his horse on and caught up with Sara. She jumped out of the saddle in front of a small house, stumbled and almost fell. She didn't let this stop her; she pushed open the door and ran inside.

“Éanna?!”, Áed heard her cry. “Shit! Éanna? Are you there?” There was desperation in her voice.

He dismounted and followed her inside as well. Saints, this was such a fucking sodding idea. They were still alone here, none of these things had followed them this far. But how long that would last, he didn't want to find out. Nothing was in its place here, unlike in the millhouse. The plates with the remains of a stew were still on the table, the pot on the hob had been knocked over, two chairs lay overturned on the floor. Sara ran up the stairs and called for Éanna again. Áed looked over his shoulder again, then grabbed a knife from the kitchen and climbed the stairs too.

Upstairs he found her in a room, empty aside from a bed, a shelf and a desk and chair. With trembling fingers Sara took a book from a drawer in the desk. Nothing on its leathery-brown binding betrayed what was hidden inside. She hugged it tight to her chest and looked up through the roof, whispering something Áed couldn’t understand. THen she turned towards the door and him, tears in her eyes and down her cheek. She whispered: “We have to go.”

She hid the book in her coat and climbed back onto her horse. They blew through streets, back to the marked square – “To the right, to the other gate!” – over overturned stalls and crates, over apples scattered on the ground, over corpses and finally through the smaller gate to the east. And Áed felt sick at the thought that they couldn't save anyone here. That their only options were to flee or stay and die too.

“Where to?”, Áed shouted to Sara in front of him. He didn’t dare to look back.

“We follow the road. This is the quickest way to get to Dunvegen.”