The valley fell slowly, slumping as though exhausted. Even so, the water it gathered was little more than a trickle, so thick with mineral salt that it glistened like spilled promethium as it glugged its way towards the southern swamps. The burials grew thicker as we approached the southern terminus, studding the rocky swale like stubble. They seemed to me almost impossibly thick, given what little I knew about the population density of the area. Perhaps the introduction of las guns had resulted in a sharp uptick in death, or perhaps the coffins were simply sturdier than they appeared. I wondered if the depth one was interned into the valley correlated somehow with status, those of low status being buried close to where they had died, with those of higher status being carried further into the blighted expanse. Perhaps the locals believed the spirits of the dead had to traverse the length of the valley to reach the next world and their chiefs got a head start.


The valley exited between gray stone peaks, greenish vegetation beginning with shocking abruptness once we cleared the rainshadow. The land fell off quickly beyond, and we were treated to a view of a hundred miles or so, though it was hazy with humidity coming up off the swamps. The Swamps was a bit of a misnomer I realized.  It was closer to a system of mangroves, low muddy earth shot through with deeper channels that ran out towards the great inland sea that collected the rain water and snow melt of half a continent. I could smell it, the reek of decaying organic matter, stagnant salty water, and sulfur. It didn’t promise to be a pleasant jaunt.


We descended along a dirt track worn in the side of the mountain by generations of funeral processions. In places stones had been piled to provide crude steps, but such conveniences were few. The lower we got, the thicker the air became and the worse the smell got. By the time we reached the first gnarled mangrove trees with their thick swollen leaves, the air was a miasmic fume, thick and damp upon the skin. My calves ached terribly from the long descent. I tried to keep in shape, more to keep the amasec off my hips than for the Emperor’s glory it was true, but I wasn’t exactly used to long hikes over rough terrain. Hadrian and Lazarus showed no signs of discomfort and Clara looked like she was positively enjoying it. Selenica alone looked pained, and I took some comfort in the companionship of misery.  I was about to ask what we should do next when Clara, who had been taking point with her auto gun, made a quick sharp gesture. I didn’t know what it meant, but Hadrian grabbed me and dragged me off what remained of the path, Lucius and the others following suit. We sheltered behind a vast thicket of thorny vines, its twisted knots shot through with brilliant purple flowers. For a long minute I heard nothing, then a rhythmic thumping. As we crouched I reached out and touched Lucius’ mind, calming the murderous impulses which were building there. The thumping grew louder and a dozen men and women passed us by. They were dressed in sturdy leathers, their eyes downcast. At the front of the group a young man carried one of the log coffins before him like a standard. Two other men flanked him, striking the earth with heavy staves of gnarled wood to keep the timing of their march. They all wore hoods that had been smeared red with what must have been some equivalent of ochre, not a dye, but a smeared muddy pigment caked and uneven. Feathers and bits of pearlescent material I judged to be some kind of shell festooned their clothing, clacking softly as they walked. Several of them had slung las guns, jarringly out of place with the primitive barbarity of their garb. They looked neither left nor right, simply trudging on up the path we had just descended, completely intent on their task. After ten minutes or so Clara gave a terse: “Clear.” and we emerged onto the path.


“Funeral procession,” Selenica observed. “Think there is any chance they will run across those dead mutants?” Hadrian shook his head.


“As desolate as the valley is, those mutants are probably in the cook pots of their fellows by now. If they bother cooking them at all. I assume they normally subsist on the marrow of interred bones,” he opined. My stomach turned at the idea of something eating the rotten marrow inside months old bones.


“What was with the red hoods?” Clara asked. She was in the process of taping an auspex unit to the side of her rifle, the better to find targets when the sight lines were so short.


“It is a marker,” I explained. There was an expectant silence broken by Clara who had finally finished with her tape.

“A marker of what Emm?” she prompted.


“Plague,” I told them quietly, the forest of coffins at the end of the valley suddenly making considerably more sense.

“Red hoods mean plague.”