The stench of death saturated the air like a limitless fog. Gorsan fought to keep his consciousness from the assault of rotting flesh on his senses. Flies and other insects flocked to the sea of walking death like bees to honey. Initially, the exhausted dwarf liked the slow pace of the army. He figured so long as his cloak hid him, he would bide his time until he could escape. Yet, to his horror, the army marched incessantly. Step after step, day after day, they plodded on like lava flowing to the ocean. The dwarf knew he would die soon. The witches of Aten, transformed into magic-wielding corpses, were sure to keep a wary eye on him. If he fled, he’d be struck down by a bolt of lightning or flash of blue energy. Gorsan was defenseless against such powerful weaves.

He looked to the sky. He hadn’t seen the sun in days. Tens of thousands of vultures and crows flew above them, eating the walking dead as they marched. Bird droppings were a constant drizzle, making small white drops that dotted the undead like burst melons. The dwarf had watched the army consume a small village on the outskirts of the Beyklan borders. It was then that he realized he’d marched nearly five hundred miles since becoming trapped among the ranks. He cursed his cloak that hid his true form to the soldiers. Gorsan would much rather have been killed at Lostom. At least then, he would be free from this suffering.

As he marched through the streets of the village, he marveled in horror as the newly dead convulsed and shivered before standing up to join the ranks. How many could this monster create? The army of death covered the land from horizon to horizon. As the rotting soldiers crossed a small cobblestone bridge, Gorsan stepped to the side and entered the water. He tried not to splash as he maneuvered under the bridge. The cool water roused him as he slid into the muddy easement. The rhythmic march lulled him into a sleepless trance. How long had he been awake? How long had he endured the decay and the lifeless?