Juddken repressed a satisfied breath as he pulled his scimitar from the accursed’s skull. He had to hide his ecstasy. The Corps still saw him as cold and callous, hardened from his stern upbringing and the strong hand of his father. But the reality was much the opposite: he reveled in violence. He always had, and with the current state of affairs, he always would.

Juddken’s appearance had changed drastically since the Holiday. He was completely clean-shaven, having forsaken his hair in accordance with the old customs of Okkan. His face was gaunt and his wide eyes sunk into his skull, giving him an angular look in sharp contrast to his prior youthful face. He had given up the simple golden robes of his father; these moons he lived in his Corps armor, a sleek bronze variant made of sliding plates that gave him twice the flexibility of his companions. He had once tossed the armor aside when his father gifted it to him years prior, but recent events necessitated its constant wear. Now he refused to sleep without it.

The guard Juddken rescued held his hand close to his chest, catching his breath. “Thank you, sir,” he gasped, still rattled by the close scare. “I'll report your valor to your father.”

“Uh, guh,” Juddken rattled as he attempted to speak. It was the only noise he could make now. He pointed to the guard’s fallen spear, still lodged in the chest of the other screamer.

The guard had grown accustomed to Juddken’s monosyllabic commands but hesitated before picking up the spear. He seemed afraid of doing anything without absolute clarity.

“Get the spear, Musub.” It was Heikk, another Corps guard. Heikk was a shorter man, with long black hair that slicked back behind his ears. He was older than the others, and as such he carried the most authority within the Corps now. Normally calm and reserved, Heikk was happy to let Juddken do the dirty work. Juddken himself found him too rigid, too critical of decisive action.

“O-o-okay,” stammered Musub. The guard removed the spear from the screamer with a few awkward tugs.

“We should move off Main Street, sir,” Heikk said to Juddken. “I’m surprised there are so few of them. We shouldn’t test our fortune.”

“Uh.” Juddken pointed to the spice house, gesturing with two fingers. He wanted to look inside.

“There’s nothing there but spice. We have more than enough supplies as is.”

“Agh,” Juddken winced as he emphasized more. He had difficulty getting his point across. “No shit,” he wished he could say. He wanted to know why the screamers wanted to go inside so suddenly.

Heikk wasn’t receptive to his wishes. “We need to leave. Boah expects you soon.” Juddken was angered by the slight. The lesser guard definitely liked to overstep his boundaries.

“Pray to Okkan we never go out alone,” Juddken thought. “Could accidentally end up with my scimitar in your eye.”

Juddken coughed as he followed the others back to the Manor. It was hard not to when so much dirt was kicked up. He stuck his mouth into his forearm, spitting up bloody phlegm. The pain in his throat hovered for a moment, and he felt a warm liquid trickle into his stomach. The pain would pass. It was a regular occurrence since his injury.

Much of his memory was a blur, and he had to be told what had happened to him: how on the eve of the Holiday, he was shot through the neck by an arrow and left for dead. The priests would say that it was but the grace of Okkan that he survived, but Juddken knew better. His father had something to do with it. If anyone asked, he had simply been given the best care by the best people. He wore a scarf to protect the wound. That’s what Boah would say, at least. The others couldn’t see the cruel simplicity of healing magic: how his neck was now but a deformed and bloated mass of tissue. He was told that he could never again eat food that wasn’t ground up into a paste. He would never again speak.

Juddken could live with that. He had little use for conversation anyway.

The Manor came into view. The other guards did their best to ignore the piles of burnt bodies surrounding the walls, victims of quicklime and hot oil. The iron doors slowly opened as the group approached, stopping only about a tenth of the way. It was enough space for each of them to squeeze through one at a time. Juddken was always last, so he made sure to get his usual glimpse of the flayed men. Two corpses, each strung up by their feet from the top of the wall, lay outstretched against it. Their bodies had long dried in the desert heat, but their blood once drizzled down the walls into a maroon sludge to the ground. They were the first two accursed, one of them being one of Juddken’s superiors: Ipa. Juddken was the first to recognize him when he tried to hide away in the Manor, scratches and all. Nothing would have fooled him. He didn’t hesitate before driving his scimitar into the bald man’s heart. It was one of the Okkan faithful who suggested that flayed men could ward off the screamers, but it was Juddken who did the actual flaying. Ipa was Juddken’s first, so his cuts weren’t perfect; the guard’s flesh looked jagged and misshapen even now. Over time he got better at it. Now Juddken’s slices were perfect even when they screamed.

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The courtyard of the Manor was packed with over a hundred people, most sitting and slouching in two masses across from each other. Juddken knew there were at least thirty more within the Manor itself, but they would be out here soon. Traders, holy men, and marauders alike all sat together around a massive bonfire collected from the doors and window panels within the Manor. Most were preoccupied with either praying or drinking away their sorrows. Fights broke out on occasion, but there was rarely the energy now. Juddken recalled how many wanted to reclaim the city from the accursed during those first few moons. His father acquiesced to those foolish few who wished to leave but refused them when they returned and couldn’t stop scratching. The ones who were left were a sad bunch, filthy and desperate.

Each of the six guards carried a sack of grain. For the past few moons, Juddken led a rotating group of guards out into the open during high noon. Initially, they scoured the town for supplies, but after a few attacks and a better understanding of the screamers’ habits, they turned their attention to their surplus of grain deep within the outer walls. The supply would last for now, though Juddken had overheard his father mentioning how at the current rate they wouldn’t last another month. What the people didn’t know, the better. It wasn’t as if Juddken could tell them anyhow.

Still, seeing all these complacent people, Juddken was amazed at his father. Even in the most dire of circumstances and with their lives in jeopardy, Boah kept these animals in line. He was a spectacular leader and a fine conduit for Okkan.

The group set their bags of grain near the fountain. There, a constant rotation of four guards handed out water to anyone who needed it. There was more than enough to last for a while, but Boah insisted that they keep careful watch of who came to it. He had come to believe the witch had poisoned the wells before she was captured, and the fountain was the only one left unspoiled. He made sure to check on the fountain several times a day, always speaking close by.

The guards arranged their sacks in a single file line near the fountain. Heikk sat near the first sack, holding a small bowl that he would use to collect and pour the grain into the people’s random assortment of pots and cups and occasionally hands. The grain was tough and chewy but few complained anymore. Juddken stood watch over Heikk’s shoulder, holding his scimitar at the ready in case anyone acted out of line.

The first in line was Adok, one of the younger Corps guards. He shadowed the group closely as they entered the courtyard. Adok had previously accompanied Juddken on other trips. His skill with the bow had proven more than helpful on occasion. Juddken liked the young guard; he was useful and quiet and loyal. He was also one of the few who helped Juddken back to the Manor before he bled out.

“Good to see you,” Adok said to Heikk. “Any trouble?”

“Three at the walls, two near the spice house. Most are still at the temple. Pretty routine.”

“Very good.” Adok pulled out a small cup and was given a small portion of grain. “What about outsiders?”

“Bah” huffed Juddken. It was close enough to be a ‘no’. Anyone seen outside the Manor was cursed, or about to be as far as Juddken was concerned. They had come across a few survivors, but they were either injured or refused to take refuge. They were slaughtered all the same.

“We stuck to our usual routes,” said Heikk. “I don’t think there are any outsiders left.”

Adok nodded, his gaze shifting down as he turned away with his grain. Juddken’s eyes were too wide, too intense to meet.

A line formed behind Adok. Fifty people were eager to receive their daily portion of food, the others would eventually come. Every day about three or so decided it was no longer worth eating. Some did so with a renewed commitment to Ati. Others had become too sick to move. Juddken hoped more would join them. The grain would last longer that way.

Juddken recognized one of the more heavier-set men as he approached the handout. Kyösti, the once powerful and influential Head. What a failure he had become. His once intricately braided beard and hair were in disarray. He had traded his many beaded necklaces for a tunic the size of a blanket that fell to his knees. Kyösti stumbled forward as he collected his grain, burping as he thanked the guards. Many suspected he kept a barrel of mead somewhere within the Manor, for he looked drunk on most moons. Juddken was disgusted at the sight of him. He hoped Kyösti would drink himself to death before long.

“Yoush… Yoush boys are doin’ a great job… Any chance yoush could make yure way to my ol’ home on main nex time yoush out? I gotsa barrel o’ wine wit yure name init.”

Heikk nodded politely but waved Kyösti on. It wasn’t uncommon for people to make foolish requests, but few had been so consistently brazen. And for it to come from a Head! What a fall from esteem. Juddken made sure to glare at Kyösti as he walked away.

Kyösti wasn’t the only Head who had fallen on bad luck. The Ati-faithful had not done particularly well since the Holiday. Kirashi was stuck managing the latrines. Gizzal was missing, and many thought he fled the city or was dead. Urash had refused to leave one of the bedrooms within the Manor, instructing the mercenary guards to attack anyone who entered his room without his expressed permission. Juddken was perplexed as to why Boah allowed him to stay there, he even brought him and his men food and water! If Juddken were in charge, he would have them all join the flayed men.

“Juddken!” A shrill voice called over the courtyard, it was Harran, Boah’s loyal administrator. His long mustache was unevenly cut, but he looked much more spry than those who slept in the courtyard. The short man approached with arms outstretched, though he quickly folded them in. He looked unsure of himself around Juddken. “The people of Ash thank you for your consistent contributions! This grain will serve us all well.”

Juddken nodded. He appreciated the praise. He noted none of the other guards treated him so.

Harran turned to the crowd, making sure his boasting could be heard by all. “We’re so proud of your growth. And your father! He will be most proud of your continued success.”

“I most certainly am.” Behind Juddken, flanking the other side of the fountain, was Boah.