Nathye cleaned his sword on the dead acolyte’s habit, then slid it back into the scabbard on his belt. Opening the door to the chamber, he found the castellan and the rest of his retinue waiting.

“There is a place where the acolytes throw the bodies to the desert. Do you know where it is?”

“I do, Your Grace,” said one of the guards. This was the same one who before had closed the door on the Duke and Roge.

“Take the two bodies and dispose of them.”

“Your Grace,” said Sir Dafeld, “shouldn’t we take your father home for proper burial? His place in the crypt is prepared.”

Is everyone against me? Can’t they follow simple orders?

“My father will have his final rest, where he spoke his last.”

“But, Your Grace—”

“Enough!”

Nathye stepped aside, using the sword that was in his hand again to point at his father’s body, still lashed to the wall.

Ser Dafeld came in, signaling the guards to follow him. They took his father down, loading him onto a cart and rolling him away. Another pair carried the dead acolyte by the shoulders, legs leaving a blood trail as they looked for another cart to load him onto.

Nathye took his father’s shroud that he had used before and wiped down his face and tunic as best he could using fast, abrasive swipes. He patted down his pants as well, but his clothes would have to wait until they returned to the horses, where a spare set was packed. He discarded the shroud, now red with dallen and acolyte blood, on the floor.

Now that Nathye had slowed down, he smelled the metallic blood and the sharp smell of shit from the bowels the acolyte had voided when he died. There was a closed balcony in the chamber. Nathye opened the door slightly, letting the night’s air cleanse away the smell.

The acolyte had said that the guard might have spoken to the old duke, and the dead do not lie. Nathye wondered if it were possible. The guard had said he closed the door, but not whether he was in or out of the room when he’d done so. Could the guard have spoken to his father? Could the guard have received the mysterious word from the old duke and be plotting the downfall of Nathye in order to take over? There was an easy way to find out.

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When the retinue came back, Nathye looked for the guard.

“Come in,” he told called him.

“The bodies are gone as you requested, Your Grace,” the guard said, walking into the room.

The castellan followed, and Nathye, bristling, ignored this.

“Close the door, Ser Dafeld.”

Once the castellan did, Nathye turned on the guard.

“You said that you checked that the room was empty, then closed the door,” he said.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And you did not see Roge or anyone else in the room?”

“No, Your Grace, though I only gave a quick glance.”

“Were you inside the room when you closed the door?” Nathye said, advancing on the man.

The man, eyes growing wide, stepped backward, shoulders hitting the wall. “No, Your Grace. I was outside.”

“So you say. Did you have a conversation with my dead father?”

The guard’s eyes were now as big as saucers. “No, Your Grace!”

“Swear it to me.”

The guard, face white as the bleached rocks of the desert, fell to his knees, looking at Nathye in supplication. “I swear, Your Grace!”

Nathye could not trust his future to this.

“Ser Dafeld,” he said to the castellan, “I need a minute of privacy with this loyal guard.”

“Your Grace?” said the castellan.

“Leave us!”

The castellan, eyeing them both, went to the door, exiting and closing it behind him.

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“Now,” said Nathye, “I need you to swear on your sword. Show it to me.”

The guard fumbled with his belt, awkwardly pulling his sword from where it had stuck between himself and the wall in this kneeling position. He pulled it out of its scabbard and presented it to Nathye.

Taking it in both hands, Nathye looked at it and said, “Yes. This one will do.”

Holding the sword by the grip, he pointed it at the surprised man’s chest and pushed hard. He was taught that a man’s rib cage was not easy to enter and that hitting a rib could block a killing blow. Forcing his weight behind the thrust, he leaned on the sword, making sure it penetrated and skewered the man’s heart.

The man, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, looked at Nathye as if asking for permission to take the sword back. Nathye looked at him pointedly, waiting for the spark to disappear from his eyes. He saw the man’s arms rise to the sword, saw the mouth try to form a word, but the heart had stopped pumping the needed lifeblood to the body. A few seconds later, the head slumped, then the weight of the collapsing body snatched the sword from Nathye’s hand.

The body was unmoving for a second before it straightened again, sword still emerging from its chest as if it were saluting Nathye. It remained kneeling there, looking at Nathye.

“Was Roge in the room when you closed the door?”

“I don’t know, Your Grace,” came the response of the dead.

“Were you inside the room when you closed the door?”

“No, Your Grade.”

“Did you speak to my dead father?”

“No, Your Grace.”

One last thing then, “Do you know where Roge is?”

“No, Your Grace.”

Nathye considered this one avenue closed. He would still need to find Roge.

He continued staring at the body of the dead guard, not having anything else to ask it. At some point, he decided to pull the sword out. Some blood spurted out, once more splashing his pants, but he was beyond caring. Seconds later, the guard slumped to the floor, dead again.

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Opening the chamber’s door, he looked at the waiting men outside.

“The man, Roge, must have left the building. Find everyone in the monastery and round them up in the courtyard by the gate.”

“Your Grace,” said Sir Dafeld, “that sword in your hand, did the guard attack you?”

He had forgotten he was still holding it. Handing it to the castellan, he said, “He had failed his duties. Dispose of the body.”

With that, Nathye stepped out of the room, the silent men making way as he strode out of the building and into the dawn that was starting to light up the sky. He stood there as his men emerged from the building and infested the rest of the monastery. The skies turned red, foretelling the arriving sun, complementing the blood that had soaked into him from head to toe.

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Beyond the building of the rock, where the ceremonies were held, the monastery had a dormitory, a kitchen, and an attached mess hall. The rest were open structures for the livestock and supplies, with no place to hide. It did not take time for his men to collect all the acolytes, five in all.

There was a young man in his twenties, as well as four boys of varying ages. He wondered why no women served here, but the thought of bringing life so close to that abomination that spoke to him through the dallen filled him with revulsion, and he did not dwell on it. The acolytes, all woken from sleep and still in their nightclothes, stood in line, the younger child crying and grasping the hand of the man.

“What is it, my lord? Pilgrims don’t often make it here so early. Did you bring a loved one you wished to talk to?” the young acolyte asked, looking around, though whether he was searching for a body or for his superior was unclear.

“I need to find Roge,” Nathye said. “Do you know where he is?”

“Roge, my lord? I would imagine he is asleep in his room.”

Nathye moved forward and grabbed the crying child by his free hand. He dragged him away from the man and handed him to one of the guards.

“Please, my lord. He’s just afraid,” the man said, trying to move after Nathye.

Another guard stepped forward, placing a sword between the men and Roge, keeping him back.

“He is not in his room. Where else can he hide in the monastery?” Nathye said.

“Hide? Why would he hide?” the man’s eyes were darting between the men, hands rubbing his stomach in a repeated downward motion.

“Kill the boy,” Nathye told the guard.

“Your Grace?” the guard, surprised, looked at Nathye, then the castellan.

“I said, kill the boy.”

“Please, my lord, Your Grace! He’s just a small child!” the acolyte cried.

The other kids were starting to cry.

The castellan looked at Nathye, eyes piercing, then nodded to the guard. “We are committed. Do your job.”

The guard, visibly swallowing, lifted the crying boy and, cradling the boy’s back to his chest, used his sword to slash the boy’s throat. Blood sprayed on the monastery’s ground as silence rained, the boy’s cries ended.

The silence soon ended. The older of the remaining children fainted and fell, the sound of his head hitting the floor ending the silence. The two younger children began crying, moving towards the man who was now on his knees, crying, looking at the child who had stopped convulsing and was now limp in the guard’s hands.

“Enough!” Nathye commanded. “Where is Roge?”

The acolyte’s whole body was wracked with sobs, the two other children huddled behind him. He looked at Nathye and tried to speak, but whatever sound his mouth tried to make was transformed into thin, high wails of sorrow.

Nathye stepped close and slapped him, hard, across his face. “Where is Roge?”

The shock must have helped. The man gulped a few times, then stopped his crying and, looking back at the dead child being laid down in his own bed of blood, said, “I do not know, Your Grace,” voice breaking again as a sob escaped.

“Are there hiding places in the monastery?”

“No hiding places, Your Grace.”

“Kill that one,”—Nathye motioned a guard to the boy that had fainted.

“Please!” the acolyte cried, trying to reach over to the boy but was barred by the guards.

The one Nathye had motioned to stepped over and quickly dispatched the unconscious older boy.

The boys huddled by the acolytes cried again, though Nathye paid them no mind.

“Think again. Is there anywhere to hide in the monastery?”

The man, on his knees, swerving from side to side and looking pale, looked at Nathye. “The dead have no reason to hide. The only place he might be is up on the hill, in the central courtyard where the rock is.”

Nathye looked at the men, who confirmed they had searched it.

“In that case, he is no longer here. He flees before us, and we must go down the mountain and find him.” Looking at the castellan, he said, “Kill the rest.”

Tired, he began walking towards the gate, hearing the cries of the boys cut short by the pacifying sounds of swords entering flesh.