Roge Lifebane leaned his thin frame on his broom at the edge of the balcony, observing the dust cloud on the horizon being kicked up by the column of men riding towards the monastery. It had been a hot, dry day, the easterly wind blowing dust from the desert below and up the side of the mountain. Any moisture would have long since been wicked out of the air, leaving the dry smell of hot sands and dry earth, and the ever-present dust.
He ran his hand through his sweat-slicked, short-cropped hair. At least when the wind blew from the desert, there was less of a chance that life would find its way into the inner building. Squinting his brown eyes against the setting Sun in the west, Roge tried to see the men. The dust they were kicking up caught the low sun in the sky and formed a haze that made it all the more difficult to see. They would not be here before tomorrow anyway. The way up was long.
Roge stretched, holding the broom above his head with both hands, then went back to cleaning the balcony. The sound of the few orphans in the monastery rose up, their chores done for the day. In this hour, between the scorching heat of the day and the frigid cold of the desert night, they were allowed to play in the yard.
He checked the smooth floor for any signs of life, then followed this with an inspection of the walls, making sure no new holes had formed and that no moss had taken hold. He’d never seen moss grow in the arid air of the monastery, but he knew his duty. That complete, he opened the doors and went in to continue his seventh round of the day.
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The monastery had stood for over two thousand years. It has had many names over the centuries. It started as the abode of Sait Ja’Alan of the Rock, who later renamed it the Fort of the Reanimator. When the empire ruled here, it was called The House of the Half Skull or, less favorably by the people, The Palace of Secrets Extraction. When the empire splintered, the priests retained autonomy and made this a place holy to all, returning it to its origins and calling it Castle Sait Ja’Alan.
Throughout all these years, it had another name, spelled alternatively D’ale or D’ell, used first by those who spent their lives maintaining it. They dealt with its miracles daily yet also took care of the mundane. They separated the two so that they should not, or almost never, meet. The name’s origin was lost to time; none remembered it as a contraction of the first prophet’s exclamation since that language was no longer spoken by any who lived.
The prophet, having seen what lay at the peak of the mountain, had exclaimed to her followers, “Truly, dead men tell the best tales.” Over the years, the place where dead men tell the best tales had been shortened to the Dead Tell or Dead Tales, and then eventually D’ell.
Surrounded by its walls and fortifications, its yards and livestock pens, its water reservoirs, kitchens, and dormitories stood a building on a raised hill. It had chambers available for the pilgrims who made it up the mountain with their gruesome cargo. Each room had a balcony that could be completely shut for privacy yet opened to allow for easy ventilation and cleaning. The building had a small internal courtyard, accessible through one door, though only acolytes ever went there.
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A stone stood in the center of the courtyard. It was the size of a human head, a dull reddish-brown in color. Viewed from one side, it just looked like a regular boulder. The other side could easily be mistaken for a rough-hewn skull, though no person had ever claimed to have carved it. In fact, the stone had stood there long before the building and the monastery were built.
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Roge Lifebane swept the entry room, being careful to look under any piece of furniture and near any corner. He has performed this duty for most of the thirty-odd years of his life since he was old enough to hold a broom and be trusted to do the job well.
Three ceremonies had been performed today, a pittance compared to what the building could handle. Roge checked the seals on the other rooms, made sure they were undisturbed since they had been swept of life, then went to look for Edmur Eyser Necroshield.
The master of acolytes was bent over a table in one of the chambers that had been used today. His strong frame had not weakened during his fifty years of serving the monastery, though Roge had noticed that Edmund Eyser was bending with more difficulty, using his hand to lower himself down and lever himself back up.
“There are people riding up, a whole column of them,” Roge said, standing by the door.
Edmund Eyser turned his face to him, his pale blue eyes looking at Roge from his stooped position. His hair, which he’d allowed to grow long around the edges ever since his bald spot expanded to cover most of the top of his head, flopped over and covered one of his eyes. “Probably some baron or a rich merchant’s son. I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough. Help me with the body.”
Roge stepped into the room, looking at the place of honor set on the wall of the room that bordered the inner courtyard of the building. His eyes had learned to gloss over it unless he made a concerted effort to notice the body.
The place had been configured as a bed for this ceremony. In it lay the body of a young men. It was dressed with in a simple tunic, covered in blood. His eyes were closed as if in peaceful sleep, but the slit throat below it belied the nature of the death that had taken the man.
“I dislike the murders,” said Roge, his voice even, as he walked over to the young man’s body.
Edmund Eyser grunted as he rose up from the table he had been cleaning, then walked over.
Roge couldn’t tell if the grunt was a response to his comment or to the physical exertion of getting up. It did not matter; they had seen enough murders brought to the monastery over the years.
What Roge really disliked was that some pilgrims left the bodies once they were done with the ceremony. He had observed over the years that the reaction had mostly to do with the outcome of the ceremony, yet how likely was a happy outcome at a ceremony for the deceased?
Bundling the body with cloth—the one thing the monastery insisted each pilgrim pay for if the body was not wrapped in one when it arrived—he grabbed it by the feet. Edmund Eyser grabbed its shoulders, and together, they carried the body to a cart outside the door to the chamber.
“Take care of it, and you are done for today,” said the master of acolytes.
“The other chambers?” asked Roge.
“All done. This was the last one.”
Roge wheeled the cart through the now-empty corridors of the building, reaching the eastern side of the building.
The building, facing the desert on this side, was built on a sheer cliff face dropping down hundreds of feet. Round holes were cut into the wall, about the circumference of a man’s arm. They were situated at the height of the cart.
He rolled the cart over to one of the holes and unshuttered it. Pushing the body along the cart, he launched it into its internal resting place at the bottom of the cliff, along with the bones and decaying bodies of all the other poor dead who were not taken away for burial elsewhere.