“Zyrn, look,” one of the men who accompanies him says. Pointing off to the south, he directs their attention to a dozen wagons moving on an almost parallel course with them.

“They’re heading to the battlefield,” Zyrn says. He knows those who are driving the wagons, they belong to a town south of theirs. Not known for their sociability, Zyrn decides to give them a wide berth. “If they are on the way to scavenge the dead, they won’t act kindly to anyone who happens by.”

“Maybe they would help us look for the others?” another suggests.

Shaking his head, Zyrn turns his attention to the man and replies, “Not these people. They would just as soon kill you as not.”

Just then, the men driving the wagons take notice of Zyrn and his group. With a flick of the reins they race forward to be first to the battlefield, apparently not knowing the dead have been almost completely scavenged already.

Zyrn gauges the distance between them and figures the wagons will reach the battlefield first. “We’ll keep our distance,” he tells the others. “We have more important things to worry about right now.”

Kicking his horse into motion, he moves quickly across the desert. He doesn’t travel far before he sees a body lying in the dirt a little to the north. “Over here!” he hollers. The others move to join him and they soon reach the body of one of the missing young men.

Hoping down from his horse, he’s quick to realize the young man is dead. Lying on his stomach the way he is, the man almost appears to be sleeping. Reaching out, Zyrn turns him over.

Jumping back in startlement, he almost loses the contents of his stomach. One of the men traveling with him does double over and begins vomiting. The skin of the young man is gray, gray like the sand surrounding the battlefield. Not only that, but his features seem to be sagging like wax held too close to heat. The young man’s eyes are open, the pupils are gray as well.