Eli and Mara climbed over rolling hills speckled with loose fescue. Before them, more farmlands. Flatlands of shin-high stalks reigned in by a horizon of hazy greens.

Both of them groaned.

No matter how splendid the rolling hills, bay hales, and sheet-cake fields, all that melted into days and days of nothing. They'd been walking for a while, trekking down the coast, smelling the sea and wading through fields - and nothing but.

On starry nights Mara would show him the constellations. She navigated by following the coast during the day. With Andices (the ‘spoon,’ she called it), they'd always find south. In return, Eli would tell her about the things from his world he found impressive: radio, television, and cars. Mara cared for some, not for others. She grew fond of trains.

However, he noticed that as they went further south, the colder it became. Before long, they started moving inland. Now, instead of featureless seas, they found themselves faced with featureless lands: strips of green and brown, walls of trees on the horizon, waist-high grass, the smell of filth in the air. Bogs started to show. Cool waters disturbed by low-hanging boughs, rattling yellow cordgrass, sending red-eyed clappers aflight. They'd sing and laugh, and Eli couldn't help but wonder if they were mocking him. These bogs melted into strips of untouched forests, outposts of glittering willows around deepening swamps.

"Avoid the deep ends," Mara warned him before he stepped into a dark patch, "the deeper it goes, the further inland we are. We're off from the roads."

It took the two a while to find a trail, though they eventually found one. That turned into a road, though according to Mara, it wasn’t the main road into Loweight. That would be further west.

“What’s west of here?” Eli pointed to the trees at the edge of the farms. “More swamps? Farmlands?”

“The Rolling Catacombs.” She said. Odd words. It took a second, but she explained it. That was the name.

The Rolling Catacombs were the untamed wilds of West Siral, an empire of fog-wracked meadows, tiny hills, rising and falling with caves tucked at their bases. The land did more than ebb and flow: chariots of anvil-heads drifted across the skies, cracks of lightning were cradled by hot winds, snaking streaks of rock jutted out from virgin topsoil. It was a quiet place, she said, where the Siralians dared not enter, for the inlands were not the domain of the Church; it was the domain of the dead, of galloping phantoms white as bone and screaming spectres melting in and out of chalky fog.

But Eli saw none of it on the road he was on. It was a long affair, soft and unbeaten, no more impressive than any alleyway lane. Thin and brown, wet and muddy, it melted as they trekked and would dip like quicksand. His loafers from Earth were falling apart.

“We’ll get something from a house.” Mara didn’t dare look at hers. At times, she gripped his shoulder and kept her balance, and more than once, they’d slip and fall. They looked much worse for wear.

Eventually, they reached a hardened trail, leading to a log house. Around it was an abandoned farmstead with beaten fences missing planks of wood, and windows nailed shut. Behind it, someone was shovelling, followed by groans of heavy work and curses. Mara stopped Eli.

“We need a story.” She whispered. “I’m a merchant, going to Loweight. We’ve been robbed by highwaymen, and you’re my assistant.”

“What if they ask what we sell?” Eli looked up at down at Mara. “Wait a minute, you’re in a priest’s uniform, right? Can’t we just be priests?”

“You've an alien's garb.” She pointed at his torn loafers. "I suggest we go with something that works."

"How about I be a merchant, and you're my priest?" They hadn't realized that the entire time they were inching closer to the house. Eli tapped Mara's arm. She frowned and then nodded.

They got closer to the noise, pummeled by the fits of a cough from a man hunched over and gaunt. He looked at the two, spat, and leaned on his shovel. He was taller than they thought. His arms were wiry, sleeves tied up with buttons, thumbs callused. He pulled his short hair back. "Watchu need? Don't see a lot o' folks round these roads."

Mara clapped and prayed. "Good ser! It's been a while since we've seen Ord and man alike, keeping ways in a good country with nary a sliver of talents has been difficult, my partner and I-"

"Watchu want?" His eyes shot from Mara to Eli, and then Eli's clothes. "You're a way's out for the Wickers, boy. What are ya, privateers?"

"We ain't, though we've been in the company of privateers, runnin' in the company of one fella by the name of Mercyfang, if you've heard of 'im." Mara crossed her arms.

The man looked at Mara's breasts. He didn't notice her jaw twitch. "Aye, Ser Fang's been active 'round the coast, I hear, but you lot are pretty inland to be lost from 'im."

"We've been separated by Ser Fang's complement and need to regroup for goods we're moving to Loweight. Team's regroupin' there, if ya can spare mercy and help us, by Ser Fang's honour, we'll repay ya triple!" She reached out her hand. He looked at Eli.

"Who's he? Mute boy?"

"Noble's pup, fancy good life before he takes up the Hold, separated from the guard, and now we need to get back." Mara tapped Eli's shoulder and smiled. "Ya talents source, so the sooner we get the boy to Loweight, the sooner ya gets paid, hear?"

The man's eyes narrowed, but he soon grabbed Mara's forearm and shook.

"Name's Henre, been livin' in these parts for 'bout four years now, came back after campaign's been brewin' after the situation over by the Shield." He spat and then led them around to the backyard.

Three bodies in a neat row, covered in burlap and tied with rope. He drew a closed eye on the sacks with honeyed ink. "Family, unfortunately, lost 'em to the 'Reek, been about a day now."

Mara grimaced at the sight. "A day? They've only been dead for a day?"

"Took only a day for 'em to be sick." Beside the corpses were a hole and an unlit torch. "Haven't burnt and buried yet. Wanna earn your keep? Help me out."

Together, the three of them dumped the corpses in the shallow pit, though Eli noticed that one of them fell apart at the waist. Based on the sizes, two children and one adult. Thin and light. They put them in, and with tinder and bush, lit the pile on fire. When the fire waned, they buried the bodies. Henre was impressed by Eli's speed and strength. "Pretty tough for a noble's boy." He laughed. Eli smiled.

He led them in his home, a meagre square halved by a tall and dirty curtain of faded hide. In the center, a table, edges cracked and clipped by hatchet marks. Grey chairs, musty. A chest bashed open with a hammer. Not a hammer in sight. Fat, solid shutters jammed into ill-fitting windowpanes. Torn and cut blankets everywhere. "Bit of a mess, but it's home, least for me." He spat into a cup and looked around for a pitcher of wine.

"We won't be long." Mara's eyes scanned the room. "We just need a spot of rest, and we'll be out of your way."

She walked over to the curtain, but Henre's outreached hand stopped her. He shook his head. "Spot of rest is fine."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

He ducked behind it. A glint of steel flashed in their eyes. A sword and shield peppered in flakes of blood. Eli and Mara exchanged glances.

"Not much 'ere, I'm afraid. But," Henre rummaged up some dried meat and warm wine. "Come, sit, sit!" He pulled up a chair for Eli. He pushed one out for Mara. They both sat. There were three at the table, close and hunched over like they were playing a game. Mara kept a hand beneath the table. "Ol' Mercyfang's lost his crew, eh? In a storm in the roaring forties? Not surprised."

"We'd been waitin' by the docks outbound the old road, goin' down to Loweight, and then the left road, waited by a small dock out in Indleshire, and didn't hear anythin'. With supplies runnin' low waiting, figures we can re-up and wait down at Loweight. Least that was the plan," She patted Eli's shoulder, "shocked the boy, got singed by a couple o' smoke-knights thinkin' we're slavers, lost the wagons, and now we're stuck without supplies."

Henre laughed. "Smoke-knights always gotta believe everyone without the cloak's a slaver, eh? Not surprised, not surprised. Always animals, that lot. Run right or run foul, that's what we always say." Henre paused, chewing on meat in his mouth. "Farmer's sayin', course."

"Many farmers runnin' into Medicalers these days?" Mara leaned back.

"Bout as much as priests gallivanting with privateers. So," Henre leaned forward to Mara," what's a broad like you findin' herself with privateers, eh?"

"A broad like me?" She smiled.

"I mean, God, if I was stuck on a ship with you, I don't know what I'd do." Henre poured her some wine. Mara politely nodded. "Don't find girls like you at the camps, not at all."

"The camps?" Mara asked. "What camps?"

Henre coughed and then wiped off the wine. "Nothin', what we call the farmers' brothels s'all." Before Mara could reply, Henre turned to Eli. "Can't speak, eh? Bad luck, runnin' into Medicalers, I tell ya, but good luck, runnin' into me. Imagine havin' to come to the house, all empty-like." Henre tossed Eli some jerky. "Come on, boy. Eat, lost ya tongue but ya appetite ain't gone, right?"

"We'll eat later," Mara assured him. "Just needs rest."

"Later?" Henre leaned back, a bit closer to the curtain. "Ya say yer hungry, need help, supplies, but now ya ain't hungry?" His eyes darted to Eli's. "Next yer gonna tell me ya ain't mute."

It was the longest ten seconds they've ever felt. Mara, her hands still below the table, kept her fingers together into a small ball. Her nails picked at a scab, drawing blood. Eli, sweating, tried his best to stop his rocking feet.

Henre noticed neither. "I'm kiddin, I'm kiddin'! Eat at y'own pace." He braced a toothy grin. "Y'all lucky though, it's been a rough time up in the north now. The Row's all up in chaos."

"I've heard news, bad news, mind, of a sickness runnin' in Aura, s'it gettin' worse?" Mara's accent almost slipped.

"Sickness? No sickness' a deal as big as the missive's."

"Missive?" Mara leaned back a bit, but her face leaned forward, keeping eye contact.

"Not seen it? 'Ere." Henre's waist had a pouch, a cheap thing patched together over years of care, bursting with jangling coins, darts, and scraps of parchment. He pulled out a crumple, unfurled it, and slammed it on the table. A call-to-arms, written by Haron of the Vsil. "They say free men and women, and I've seen a few lads and ladies makin' trek over to the Meadow roads. Folks are not fine with their lot willin' to throw themselves into this rat's army, and a lot of 'em too. And get this," he tapped on Haron's signature, "that ain't no Marshall's sign."

Mara pulled the sheet closer to her, read it, and then reread it. "This is..."

"Open rebellion. The rat's got his head in the clouds, but 'free men,' hah!" Henre took another swig of wine. "Free men can't fight smoke-knights, can't fight bog-birds, can't fight Urven. What can free men do?" He was going to take another swig, but for some reason, he hesitated. Henre let the cup slosh the wine about, speckling the table like blood. "But I've heard some boys are sick of bleedin' for some highborn horse-fucker, so they're willin' to die for this." He winked at Eli. "No offence, my liege."

"Willing to die for a mage? Haron's a Spell-Marshall, why would they die for a mage?"

"Beats me. But far as I can tell, free is free, and they don' see 'free' thrown around freely. Round 'ere, you don't get many chances like that, and not with the backin' of a real Marshall, and one of the big ones too!" Henre sighed. "Sometimes, I wonder if it'd be right to go and try it meself."

"Back to soldierin'? Pick up a buckler and swing again?"

Henre's smile melted into a frown. "I didn't mention I was a soldier."

Everyone froze.

Eli stayed still. Mara kept her eyes on Henre, and Henre kept his hands in sight; one on the cup, another on the table.

She smiled. "I just figure ya fer a soldier, you've got a soldier's build. And 'sides, I saw a peek of the sword and ward peeking through the curtain, was I wrong?"

"We don't say 'sides' round 'ere." Henre's eyes shot to Eli and then to Mara. "Yer Ambright accent's shit."

Henre darted for the curtain. Mara kicked the table into his pelvis. Under the table, she fired off a stream of razor-sharp blood and nicked Henre in the leg. "Fuckin' whore!" He fell and kicked a table leg. The table spun into Mara's stomach, sending her staggering to the wall.

Henre hustled to the curtain. "Eli!" Mara yelled. Eli lunged. He missed. Henre grabbed his sword and shield. He assumed his stance, shield front, blade behind. He held it chest high, covering his collarbone to his stomach. Eli tried to kick his shins. Henre dodged.

Another sling of blood ripped through his leg. "Now!"

Eli rewound his arm, but Henre pushed the shield boss into his face, sending him off-balance. "Not a fighter, eh?" Henre yelled. "I'm goin' to have fun breakin' that whore of yers!"

Mara fired another shard of blood. Henre dropped low, shield close to his chest, and rushed towards Mara. He ended up so close to her that it seemed like the boss was going to break her nose. Without delay, he swung at Eli's approach, sending Eli reeling back in fear. In response, Eli kicked the table at him, and Henre tried to dodge it, but his blade got stuck in the wooden flesh. He tried to pull it out.

It was too late. Mara grabbed his sword hand and then locked her legs around his sword arm. She pulled. "Come on, Henre! Give it to me hard, boy! Give me that snap!" She clenched her teeth.

Henre tried to swipe at her, but the strain on his sword was getting bad. Still, a shard of chipped shield dug into her shoulder and drew blood. "Damn boy, get over here!" She yelled.

Eli grabbed a broken piece of the table leg and, with as much force as he could muster, stabbed Henre in the leg. Clean and strong, it ripped through his muscles like butter, sending him crashing into the floor. The impact was so hard it sounded like tiny explosions, a clatter of pops in the floorboards. Henre sweated and bled, unable to get up. With the blood from her shoulder, Mara fashioned a knife and stabbed it into his now-exposed collarbone.

Henre wheezed, cursed, and fell. He coughed and tried to grab his sword, but Eli kicked it away. He tried to raise his shield, but Mara stomped with all her might. Digits cracked, blood seeped, wood splintered—a bolt of pain and then glazed eyes.

Blood pooled and bubbled, followed by the crooning of a death rattle. Breaths heavy, Mara sat down on the only chair left, elbows on her knees, leaning forward. She refused to take her eyes off the corpse. "Eli, pick -" She hadn't paid attention before, but then she heard it again.

Popping. Soft and faint, a crackling noise from behind the veil. It wasn't Henre.

The two of them locked eyes. She nodded to Eli, who, with sweaty and shaking hands, pulled back the curtain.

A row of empty boxes, some opened, some closed. Packed tight and high, many nailed shut. Others had been tied together with rope. Rolls of beds on the floor, stained in blood. Floor planks black as night. Eli poked around, and beneath sheets of thin linen was a trapdoor, ill-fitted and poorly made, locked.

He kicked it in. At the bottom was darkness. Slivers of grey light bled down into a crawlspace. The smell of meat. Mara followed, seeing hooks of skinned animals, blood coagulated into chilled puddles. It was normal meat storage. Swinging carcasses was no cause for alarm.

But one body, swine swinging from the commotion above, jostled something. And it popped.

At the end, tucked away, was a creaking bed, big enough for two. There was a woman, cold and stiff. A rusting chain wreathed around her wrist, her long hair fallen carelessly into her mouth. Naked from the waist down, blood had dried around her legs. A beaten necklace, covered in vomit and dried phlegm. A bracelet from some Witchway market dug deep into her wrist, branded by rope burns and bruises. Her skin was covered in pustules, bumps lumped together into loud cracks as the swaying of the pig's corpse kissed her feet. The body turned over, and with the slightest of movements, loud and sharp popping.

Mara, having fashioned her ascot to close the wound on her shoulder, grimaced. "Burrowreek."

Eli turned to her. He knew this. He'd read about this before. "What do you mean, Burrowreek?"

"It's what we call it, a strange disease out of the Burrows, the farm -"

"No, no, I mean, this isn't Burrowreek." Eli backed off from the body. "I've read about this; this is...this is from my world."

"Your world?" Upon hearing that, Mara backed off the body as well.

"The popping, it's, I've read it." Eli buried his hands in his face. "I've read it before. Popping, like, fluid beneath the skin, it pools." He looked back at the body, almost as if he didn't believe his own eyes. "But what's it doing here? It's gone from my world."

Mara clenched her fist. "What's gone? Tell me, Eli. Tell me what you've wrought on us."

Eli backed off from Mara as well. Truthfully, he didn't know what to do, and he didn't know how such a thing jumped over. Was it a mutation? Had it been dormant? Was it some sort of strange immunity? He wasn't a virologist. He'd only read a bit about it. "This reminds me of the avian flu. Bird flu or something. Like, a specific one. The popping." Another pop and he flinched at the sound. He remembered. "This looks like Spanish Flu. But, what's it doing here?"