The rusted gloam rapidly faded to the black of night. Follmer had to leave the horse; her cries had long ceased. Ard’s thrashing was long gone but still sloshed through Follmer’s mind. His ears still rang from the shot he’d made for Ard’s head as The Slough took the poor kid. A sob rattled in his chest that he dared not let out. Ard’s panic had drenched him in enough rotblood that he reeked like the dead. If he could keep from vomiting or crying the other denizens of The Slough might not take notice of him. He’d passed a fair few already. One narrowly saved him by stepping first into one of the deceptively deep pools that dotted his path.

He was extremely lucky. He’d escaped with his rifle, rations, and their precious cargo. They’d even made good time getting to the Slough in time for tonight, the fullest moon of the summer. It was so bright even Erd’s rings were aglow. Together they bathed the blackened world in an eerie violet that lent just enough light to travel.

Grass and twigs crackled beneath his boots as he stopped just shy of a clearing. Tall shadows of pines and willows reached into the night. In the middle stood one of the restless, twitching and scratching at its pale skin. It was nude, trails of dried rotblood ran down its body. Like everything that was “born” in The Slough it possessed “wrong” traits. Odd numbers of fingers that stretched too long with extra digits, holes where ears ought to be. This one lacked eyes. They always seemed to have a mouth though. He’d seen them with several rows of teeth and barbed tongues. This one used its teeth to bite the air, gnashing at the moon.

Full moons always agitated the restless. Follmer had seen them range from furious to something like sad. Most seemed to get lost, distressed, like they were on the cusp of understanding they were dead but unable to grieve it. This one was angry, like it was aware of its profaned existence and blamed the moon for the transgression. He wondered if Ard would ever feel the subtle madness of the moon pulling at the pinning of his mind, if one’s mind even persisted after they were taken. If there was anything left of him at the bottom of The Slough. He shuddered. He hoped the shot he’d taken had struck true.

Keeping an exaggerated hobble, Follmer avoided the moon-bound horror and pressed on.

Shelter was depressingly close. They would’ve left the horses and made the last leg quietly on foot. Quietly. Ard was a good kid. If he’d been a better listener he’d have been a good ranger too. He wasn’t the first pick, but he was the one that offered to go. Over the years Follmer had seen the fine balance of courage and cowardice that kept his kind alive. Poor Ard’s scales were too noble. In a fair world it would’ve been Follmer sinking in the red. A little loss went a long way tempering courage; it’d certainly kept him alive.

It wasn’t long before the trail of gravestones appeared, slithering through the woods like a hewn serpent. The old church waited at its tail. The stone foundation had sunk into bloody earth long ago. Its wooden carrion was worse for wear than he recalled. A new chunk of the roof was on the floor, something scuttered beneath it. The altar was still intact upon the dais. Melted candles dripped over the wood, bone charms and dyed strips of fabric hung from the ceiling. It all reminded him of a home that hadn’t existed for some time.

He knelt at the doorway and dug lightly at the dark loam of the threshold. The dirty top of an earthen jar stared up at him. A seven-pointed star with his old clan’s adornments around it, glazed in red. The same seal that had been burning on his neck since he’d entered the Cyst. No cracks meant the ward-jar was still in working order. The rest would likely be as well, but he liked to check anyway. Between the wards and the moon, the dead were sure to stay clear. He knocked on wood at that thought, just in case.

The moon shafting through the moldering roof gave ample light to work. He removed his pack from his shoulders, setting down the heavy load as gently as he could. The joints and muscles in his neck and shoulders protested.

This fucking brick better be worth it.

He checked for damage. He wasn’t even sure how it would be possible to damage a book like this. Pages made of lead, who the hell thought of that? They hadn’t told him much about it, just that it was important, and old, and Ard would help him carry it.

Better be fucking worth it.

He opened the book tenderly. It was bound in a dark vellum. It could’ve been dyed human skin; it didn’t look like any animal hide he’d seen. The title was in a dead language, he hadn’t a clue what it said. Didn’t think he cared either; that wasn’t his job. That was for the university, on the other side of The Slough in Fendil.

He didn’t need to inspect it further, there was no visible damage, and again, the pages were made from lead. Nevertheless, he found himself thumbing through its dark plated reams. Slowly the mental image of Ard’s terrified eyes was replaced by a collection of dead languages and old maps. The text was gibberish to him, but the universal language of pictures yielded something at least.

The book was mostly genealogies and cosmological models, things he’d not seen since childhood in Seekers’ tents, adrift in the clutter of astrolabes and sextants. Some of the symbols were apparent to him. One for Aur, the sun, and one for The Erebus that passed between the sun and Erd once a year. Their symbol for the moon wasn’t what he was used to seeing, and something was wrong with the arrangement of the spheres. He couldn’t place it, but the tracks of the heavenly bodies seemed off. Askew from the charts the Ebonbairn kept meticulously. For as old as the book had to be its astronomy was impressive. The genealogies were staggering.

Some were depicted as incredible trees, each leaf a name and symbol. Others were stripped back and more practical, with lines dyed in varying faded colors to delineate bloodlines. It was all written in the same gibberish, but they seemed to use the same system of familial brands present in the cities today. All the brands had a unicursal frame with a symbol in the middle and a unique mix of tracery and symbols around the core brand.

He turned the page again. The lead hissed and warbled as it moved. The violet light danced over black metal waves in a way that made his head hurt. The book opened to a two-page spread entirely dedicated to the lunar symbol he’d never seen. What could only be the moon engraved behind it, with its craters and ghastly faces. It lacked the great gash across its surface, the one that now bled violet on the rare nights it caught Aurum’s light. The more Follmer looked at it he saw eyes in the craters and teeth in its ridges. The sharp edge of the page bit him on the thumb. He shut the book, harder than he felt was necessary.

Follmer decided against sleeping. He didn’t have Ard to wake him if he started talking, or worse, screaming. He migrated deeper into the church, toward the altar at the back. Bone chimes clacked together in the summer breeze. He took a seat on the rotted stairs leading up the dais. He unslung his rifle, loaded the slug, and then the Igneum crystal. The breech clicked closed and he set the rifle down. He could see all angles from here, not that he had any intent of firing the rifle. He removed the large, curved knife from his belt and held it tight in his lap.

Dawn wasn’t far off, the sky returned slowly to its fleshy rose hue. Follmer managed to stay awake thanks to the Pickled Eyes he’d saved for just such an occasion. What a horrible name for a fruit. He slipped what was left of them into his pack. They did look like eyes. He rose to his feet with a series of pops and cracks. An extra sound came from the door, the scraping of boots.

Follmer turned, knife in hand. His stomach dropped into a knot. There in the morning twilight stood what could not have been Ard. But it had his coat, his pistol, and his green eyes shrouded in a reddish black. Follmer looked to his neck, and right where he expected there was a gaping hole where a brand used to be.

“Are you fucking kidding me.” He trembled. Had he fallen asleep? No, this was real. His dreams were full of fear. Like most of his waking moments this one was a jagged mix of anger and sickness. He felt stupid, being mad at The Rot was like holding a grudge against a flood or a wildfire. It didn’t matter. That hate had a well-worn home deep in Follmer’s chest.

“Follmer it’s me!” It said with extra voices in the back of its throat. He drew a shaky breath. There was nothing left of Ard in there. The bullet hadn’t saved him. Follmer at least knew his knife wouldn’t miss.

“Time to go back to sleep kid.” Weeping and wrath rattled like stones in his throat. He dropped the pack from his back and lunged. The thing stepped further into the light. Fleshy roots slithered beneath its stolen skin. Its tongue lolled out like a fat blood-plump slug. It too lunged at Follmer, with wicked speed and cunning Ard had never possessed. Follmer caught it, jamming the bite guard on his arm into its jaws as he tackled it to the ground. He slid the knife over its throat and pressed down. He took his arm out of its mouth. The thing that was not Ard gnashed wildly and bit right through its tongue. Follmer placed both hands on the knife and bared down with all his weight. Ard’s spine gave with a wet snap.

The body went limp. The head rolled away and gnawed at the air. He slid the blade into the temple and gave it a shake, and Ard’s head twitched no more. “I’m so sorry kid…” He clutched Ard and let out whatever sobs he had to give. They passed quickly. The tears always ran dry before he was done.

He bagged Ard’s head. At least he could give him a Ranger’s interment now. In the twilight, thousands of little wings descended on the church, returning to their home from the nightly feast. They sheltered in the rafters in fluttering droves. Some descended on what was left of Ard, beginning their delicate work. Guess I did end up feeding him to the moths.

“Svwy seren. Ardy.”

He put the hefty pack back on and listened for the sounds of the dead. Nothing stirred. He headed north, Ard gently swayed in a burlap sack with every step.