part two of one

Ganry smeared thick fat under his nose, but he could still smell it, the reek of dead flesh in hot sun. The village was filled with bodies, and bits of bodies. Men, women, children, animals; they were all hacked to death, or had their skulls caved in, or had been pierced with spears, or a combination of the three. Even he has retched at getting out of his wagon, though Myst had tapped on his door to warn him ahead of time what the scouts had found. At least he didn't have to touch the carnage - Ameera had charged him with finding anything flammable while the others stacked the bodies on a roughly made pyre and the younger ones collected sticks and straw. The pyre would need to burn quick and hot to consume a whole village.

He had emptied the inn of strong white spirits and only sampled enough wine to take away the headache. He could think of little else that would be of use. There was a chandlery close by the inn. the people in the villages had little need for writing and instead hung signs or clapboards with drawings on them. Ganry ducked below the creaking wooden board and entered the shop. Candles hung from the roof in rows, all shapes and sizes, and he had to tilt his head to avoid them. There was a door to a back room and he was moving towards it when he heard a growling noise coming from below his feet. Pushing aside a woven rug, he found a metal ring built into a groove in the floor and tugged it up.

Two sets of eyes peered out at him. A growling, half-grown pup with a dusty cream coat snapped at him and would have jumped out to bite, but a scrap of rope around his neck restrained him. The rope was held by a boy. He was young and he was dirty and he cowered away from Ganry as if he expected to be hurt. Ganry stared down and the child stared back, blinking at the light. The dog barked.

Myst came in. Ganry wondered if Ameera had sent him to check up on the amount of wine missing from the taproom.
"Gods be praised, a survivor! Come with me boy, I'll take you to Ameera."
The boy, who looked no more than 8 summers, allowed himself to be lifted into the lead hand's strong arms and carried off into the daylight to where the wagons had been pulled up.
Ganry found himself holding the dog's leash. The dog looked at him and growled. He dropped the rope.
"Nice dog?" he said. The pup scratched himself and ambled off, the rope trailing in the dirt behind him. Ganry shrugged and got on with his work.

Later, the flames had roared up to claim the unfortunate villagers and the well stocked inn was emptied. There had not been enough wine to erase the memory of the scorching smell of hair and flesh from the pyre and Ganry was sitting alone, lamenting that he had not secreted away a bottle of the white spirits. Myst approached him.
"Where's the dog?" he said.
"Dog?"
"The pup that the boy had. He wants it. keeps crying for it, and for his mam. Not likely to get her back, so Ameera wants the dog."
"Shit, I let the damn thing go."
"Well, we best go and find it boss, or Ameera wont be happy with either of us."
The big man clasped Ganry's forehand and hauled him up with ease. They left the village square and its circle of firelight uneasily. Who knew what could be there in the dark.

It didn't take a long time to find the yellow dog. It had curled up in a corner of the chandlery. Myst took up its leash and it gambolled around his legs, eager to play. Myst tripped and the dog ran out the rear door of the chandlery into a small plot. As Ganry chased it clumsily, he tripped in the darkness and landed with his nose in mud, inches away from a dark bundle of rags. The dog wandered over and licked at the bundle and then at Ganry.
"Get away, dog!" he yelled as he gathered himself and scraped the dirt from his face. he looked down at the rags and swore.
"It's a baby." Myst said, aghast.
"It's covered in blood" said Ganry, sniffing at the mud on his hands. "Bled out by the looks of it. Who would kill a baby?"
"Bring it," Myst said, sadly and he picked up the dog's rope again. "it will burn with the others."
Ganry shuddered. he wished he had been the one to grab the dogs fraying rope, dirty as it was. He leaned down and gingerly picked up the sodden bundle. It weighed almost nothing and felt damn and cold. A spray of sparks from the fire showed the infant's face was crusted with blood. He turned and started to move back to the square, holding his morbid prize at arms length. Myst walked in front and the dog trotted beside him. As they rounded the corner of the chandlery, the infant opened its eyes.

Ganry promptly dropped it and a loud cry reverberated around the square, breaking the sombre quiet of those still gathered around the fire. Myst jumped as if he had been stung.
"Shit Ganry, it's alive! Pick it up."
Ganry stood, as if frozen. It had been dead. The child was dead. He still had its blood on his hands, on his face. And it had been so very cold. And those eyes.

Myst bent down and scooped up the screaming infant with his free hand. He cradled it to his chest and raced towards Mirryn, the herb woman, who beckoned him into her caravan. As the cries quietened, Ganry became aware that every eye was on him. He dropped his arms down to his sides. Maybe it had been the wine or the firelight or simply the long and dreadful day, but he could have sworn the child had silver eyes.

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