Page 46 of Fires of the Forsaken
“Hang on, there’s a town full of sick people, and you’re gonna march your army through without masks, or hazmat suits or-oranything?Are you trying to make sure the disease spreads to everyone else?” I didn’t have ‘succumbing to mystery plague’on my‘Ways to Die in Viking Land’Bingo card. But here we were, riding toward impending doom.
Where was my venomous horse stalker when I needed it? I’d rather take my chances with the animal than the plague.
“It doesn't spread that way,” Cheriour said. “A person will only fall ill if they’ve been in direct contact with Elion. And he doesn’t linger once he’s infected a town. So, yes, we will ride through Lamex.” He ran his fingers through his snarled beard. “It won't be a pleasant sight. And you won’t agree with what we'll need to do. But you'll keep your mouth shut. Or,” his throat bobbed, “I’ll do what I must to ensure your silence.”
My head snapped back. This was a total one-eighty for him. Sure, he’d told me to be quiet before, but he’d neverthreatenedme.
Cheriour tugged at the end of his beard.Hard.“I wouldn’t ask my soldiers to enter this town if I had another choice. It will be traumatic for everyone. Your thoughtless way of speaking may make it worse.”
My insides squirmed. “I-I don’t say things to hurt people.”
Cheriour twisted in the saddle to stare at me. “I know,” his voice gentled. “But youdospeak without thinking. And careless words can cut deeper than a blade.”
I didn’t say anything to that. I couldn’t.
Shame, desperation, and hopelessness washed over me like a mammoth tidal wave. Choking me. Mashing against my body, dragging me further and further beneath the surface.
I wanted to stop.
But I couldn't.
So I tightened my hold on Sacrifice’s mane and stared straight ahead. My hands shook. And every step we took felt ominous.
* * *
When we first arrived atthe minacious town, it seemed innocent.
Lamex looked like a European village: narrow cobblestone streets twisted around small, Tudor-style houses. Instead of driveways and yards, each house had a livestock pen where goats, horses, and cows stood beneath the hot afternoon sun, munching on leftover scraps of straw.
It was silent for a few minutes. Almost peaceful. The town was quiet, quaint, and inviting. A gentle breeze wafted through the air, drying the sweat on the back of my neck. But the wind also carried a smell—practically whacked me across the face with it.
I rammed my knuckles into my mouth, choking back a gag at the awful stench. It was like I’d stuck my head into a New York City sewer and taken a big whiff.
Actually, it stunkworsethan the sewer.
The odor was a rancid combination of urine, feces, puke, and decay. And I wasn’t the only one affected by it. One of the first riders into the village, a gray-bearded man, pinched his nostrils shut. A few others sputtered and choked and used the crooks of their elbows to cover their noses. Even Cheriour looked a little green in the gills.
But the soldiers continued forward, navigating the tapered streets, while the stench hovered like a heavy cloud over us.
My sweat-slick fingers tightened around Sacrifice’s mane as we approached the first cluster of houses. Bodies were stacked beside every building. There were adults, children, and eveninfants.Tears welled in my eyes.
Whatwasthis? What virus caused skin to rot away? Some bodies had almost none left to cover their tendons and bones. And the sparse bits of flesh remaining were alarming shades of red, gray, and blackish-brown.Zombie skin. Except zombies weren’t usually lying in puddles of bloody vomit, with diarrhea crusted on the seat of their pants.
The sights got more horrific as we went farther into the town. Because some people were still alive.
Those who still breathed did so mechanically. Their bloodshot, glassy eyes stared unblinkingly at us. Blood and pus oozed from their rotted flesh. They staggered about, ignoring the army traveling through their streets.
I passed a small house where a young woman strung laundry on the line outside her front door. Her skin had decomposed; her hands and arms had almost no flesh left. She left blood streaks on her sheets but didn't seem to notice them. Or maybe she didn't give a shit. Because, not two seconds later, she doubled over and puked black goo into her wicker basket of linens. Then she reached in, shook the bile off the sheets, and hung them on the line.
I clapped my hand over my mouth as my stomach made a stickysquitch-squatchsound. Sacrifice halted, her ears swiveling. Like radar, picking up on my unstable emotions.
And, at first, I thought the blond-haired soldier was there to help. He was off his horse and walking from house to house. I waved at him. “Yo!” A sour tang coated the back of my throat—like freaking artichoke hearts (I hated those things). “Hey, she needs help!” I pointed to the woman, who stood a few feet away from him.
He turned. Slowly. His skin vibrated with barely contained tremors.
“You got any water on—the fuck?” I screeched.
The soldier approached the sick woman with his sword raised over his head.
