“Just get the corpse on the wagon.” This from Reed. “It leaves at first light.”
I creep nearer, pausing at the edge of the next shanty. Beyond the dirt path that bisects the working fields is a stable. It doesn’t hold animals, but a wagon filled with corpses. I can make out the prone form of the deceased even from a distance. Reed holds a torch while two Loyalists heave the dead man into the wagon. Rune circles overhead, the glow of the torch illuminating her white belly. I push flat against the shanty.
“Still wish we could burn them here,” one of the men goes on. “Big waste hauling bodies out every week.”
“The General doesn’t like the smell of burning bodies,” the other says.
“And this is better?”
Even from where I’m standing, the smell is awful. Based on what they’ve said, the deceased have been piling up for a week. The General wants all his people to be loyal to the gods, but for the convenience of not having to smell their burning flesh, he risks damning their souls when they die. If the workers’ minds weren’t cloudy from the drugged water, maybe they’d see the hypocrisy in it.
“Are you done yet?” Reed grunts.
The men yank a sheet over the wagon, hiding the bodies from view, then follow Reed as he heads for the Backbone. I watch their torches drift off, Rune flying with them. Soon the only light left is that of the moon and a few flickering torches high along the dam wall where security details patrol. It’s a blessing that these men don’t have falcons. They really should, though maybe the birds are a pain to train, a resource reserved only for the General and his Four. More likely, he doesn’t want to teach his code to more people. If they can communicate on their own, they can keep secrets from him.
I stand still, waiting for a change in the guards. When their backs are turned, their attention slightly lowered, I dart for the cart. Lifting the sheet, I dive beneath and yank it back into place.
The stench is horrific. I gag, nearly losing the little food in my stomach as I wedge my way between the stiff bodies. The guard who died during the scuffle over dice is still warm, his body the easiest to move. Something sticky trails across my arm. I bite my bottom lip to hold in a cry. Turn away from the wetness. Find myself staring into a set of lifeless eyes. It’s an old man with wrinkled, sun-browned skin. He probably died from exhaustion in the fields, but blood marks his crown. There’s a gaping hole in his skull.
They’ve checked to see if he was gods touched. I glance around. Everyone in the wagon has been checked.
I wrap my scarf over my nose, hoping to block the smell. It still presses in on me, heavy and rotten and warm. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore what I’ve seen.
I don’t have to weather it for long. Just until first light. Then the wagon will be moving.
The only way out is with the dead.
Chapter Sixteen
Sleeping with the dead seems like tempting the gods to render me a corpse as well, so I don’t risk it.
When the wagon creaks to life, dawn’s early glow is just beginning to fill the sky. I can make it out through the paper-thin rag of a blanket that hides me. What I can’t hide from are the flies. They found the bodies as soon as the heat began to climb.
It doesn’t smell as bad anymore. Or maybe I’ve gotten used to it.
I exhale sharply, chasing a fly from my nose. I don’t dare move a hand to swat it, not with the Loyalists so near. I can hear their chatter in the front of the wagon. Two men, it sounds like, joking above the clacking of their steeds’ shoes.
We climb the ramp to the dam, and I hold my breath as they speak to a guard on watch. Then the wagon is descending again. Leaving Bedrock behind. Traveling into the wastes.
I expect relief, and in some way I find it; I’m breathing easily again. But guilt coils in my stomach and dread stretches through my limbs. I am deserting everyone I love, and if I can’t find someone who can read whatever language makes up my brand, they will all be dead when I return.
If you return. You have to get out of this wagon first—and through the Barrel—unseen.
I clamp my eyes shut, thinking. Climbing into the wagon was the extent of my plan. I hadn’t considered how to get out of it. And now there are two guards. Two men, likely armed, while I have nothing but the clothes on my back.
We roll to a stop all too soon.
The men dismount, dirt crunching beneath their heels. I tense, waiting for the blanket to be ripped from overhead, but they move away.
It’s ungodly hot in the wagon. Sweat beads on my forehead and is dripping between my breasts when the unmistakable scent of smoke reaches me.
They’re lighting the whole wagon on fire.
They’re burning the entire lot.
Panic seizes me. I’m about to throw off the blanket and run when the crackle of burning wood makes me pause. It’s distant. A dozen paces off, maybe more.
Footsteps approach.
“You can’t take off, Twill. How am I supposed to tow the wagon back with just one horse?”
“The wagon will be empty when you’re done with the bodies, dunce. One horse’ll be enough.”
“But it’ll take me twice as long to move the corpses working solo.”
“Good. That buys me more time to visit my girl. You know they keep turning down my request to get reassigned to the Barrel. This is my only chance.”
“They’re gonna ask where you went,” the first Loyalist says. “When I return alone, they’re gonna ask questions. We could both face the firing squad for this.”
“Then wait right here.” A shuffle of fabric. “Take my water rations, use the blanket to make a shade canopy, and I’ll meet you in a few hours. We can head back together. Tell them the tinder was wet and the pyre took ages to get started. Please?”
I bite my lip in the delay, praying the Loyalist agrees. One man, I stand a chance against. Two are out of the question.
“Fine,” he says finally. “Be quick about it. And you owe me half your dinner rations for the next week.”
“You’re the best.” The horse whinnies as Twill presumably spurs him to action. Hooves pound on the hard rock. “I’ll see you in a bit . . .” A fading shout.
The remaining Loyalist grumbles to himself as his shadow descends on the wagon. I sling my arm across my eyes a heartbeat before the blanket is ripped away.
There’s a creak near my feet—a board on the wagon being lowered so that unloading the bed will be easier. The deceased man to my right shifts. There’s a meaty slap as the corpse falls from the wagon and hits the ground. I listen to the struggle and the grunts as the Loyalist tugs the body toward the fire. The scent of smoke isn’t as thick now, but the crackling wood is hungry.
I risk a quick glance over the edge of the wagon. The pyre is several paces away, flames licking toward the sky. Bedrock’s mesa, dam, and waterfall have all seemingly disappeared. We didn’t travel far, though, so we must be in a valley of some sort, the settlement hidden from view. I can’t see the Barrel either. I’ll have to use the wagon tracks to puzzle out which way to travel once I’m running. But first . . .
I return my focus to the Loyalist, who’s rolling the corpse into the fire. The man is taller than I am, but scrawny, and I’ll have the element of surprise. There’s a long rifle strapped to his back, but I doubt I can get my hands on it quickly enough. On his hips, though, I spot the familiar shape of a knife hilt.