God rest the Dead

Note: Image associated is from Ironage.media, specifically their prompt, 'The Calm'

George Landrich came slowly around the bend in the forest trail, hips shifting forward and back as his horse walked. He could see some of the open ground ahead, a disturbed patchwork of snow and dirt at first, resolving itself into a graveyard as headstones came into view, shadows flitting over the ground, the first sign of any life the last few miles as the world stayed eerily silent. As his eyes traced higher in the setting sun's light, he could see the birds passing far above him, black dots in the air, with nary a flap of a wing to tell him if they were crows or ravens.

When he dropped his gaze from his sky-borne audience, he saw the church brooding in a vast sea of graves, dominating the land as far as he could see, a jumbling swarm that spoke not of some heaving crush of death but the slow trickle of dead that marked a long-standing hamlet. His breath released slowly, a thin cloud in the crisp air.

His mountain sojourn is finally at an end.

He guided Billy through the rough ground, seeing no obvious path between the tangle of headstones and graves ranging from long-sunk and freshly dug until his hoof struck the stone steps of the church. The sharp crack of steel on stone sent a teeming horde of wings into motion, entire trees seeming to burst into flight as their hidden occupants took wing in the wake of shattered silence, George twisting himself about at the onrushing wind. His hand slipped from the butt of his pistol as he recognized the commotion's source, a swollen mass of disturbed birds shifting low in the sky, slowly settling itself back into the trees surrounding the churchyard.

"Good Evening, Sir."

Startled, George swung around, pistol drawn and hammer cocked, levelled at the priest's heart for but a breath before he was lowering it. "Sorry, Father. Is the town close?"

"Town?" The priest reached out to Billy's muzzle, touching it before the horse seemed even to be aware of him, "There's no town for miles, my son. So, I must ask, what brings a man to this valley so deep into the mountains?"

"Would you believe obedience to his earthly Lord, Father?" George said, swinging down from his saddle, his foot slipping on a thin sheet of ice on the step, standing only with the help of Billy, "Though if there's no town, why is there such a graveyard here?"

"The graves are a mix of my brothers and those desperate enough to risk the journey here for healing, pilgrimage, or a love of the mountains." At that, the man took a deep breath as if to claim the last reason as his own. "And no, I don't believe you're here for obedience. You've come from the wrong direction to be a servant of the Earl. So, what brings you here?"

George found his footing on the frozen steps as the priest spoke and pulled his heavy coat of sheep's hide and wool apart, revealing the deep crimson and green of a Fulcherian Dragoon's uniform and the steel sword and scabbard of an Officer. "A guilty conscience, then?"

"You, you're a scout? Even Fulcheria wouldn't dare attack the church. No King is THAT bold." The priest spluttered his indignation, fury driving the man to hold his ground even as George stepped closer, pistol touching his gut.

"Oh, but my King is indeed that bold; after all, who's to punish us when you're dead?"

The click of the hammer was almost too quiet to be heard, but the deafening bang of the powder charge stole the priest's reply from George's ears, just as it stole the priest's footing from under him. Sucking his last breaths, a few words rattled out from the dying man as the Fulcherian vanguard came into view, far back up the path, lost to all but the God that George had never cared for. Climbing the steps, all that was left was to ensure none escaped to warn the Marquessan King of the war George had been charged with bringing over the mountains.