But lying here on his back, with a bag over his head and Horde breath choking him, Billos realized that he didn’t want to die. He was far too young to die! Only seventeen.

He hadn’t even married yet. He hadn’t owned his own house. He hadn’t fought in his first battle, not really, unless you counted the encounter with the four Scabs in the forest earlier.

Billos regretted not accepting the proposal of marriage from Sebrina, an eighteen-year-old looker who’d taken a mighty fancy to him last summer when he was only sixteen. His father had discouraged him, saying that it wasn’t wise for a boy destined for the Forest Guard to marry too young, before he became skillful enough in battle to survive a few years. The forests had far too many widows left by overeager young fighters, he’d said.

Now Billos cursed the Forest Guard and all that had put him in this predicament in which he was about to die unmarried!

“Then let’s take it to Qurong and be done with it,” the second voice said. “Its smell is making me sick.”

The flap of a canvas curtain silenced them. Boots shuffled forward. We must be in a tent, Billos thought.

“Take a look, sir,” a new voice said.

Someone scoffed, as if offended by the presence of this new sir. The scoff was immediately followed by a hard slap.

“Show respect,” the new voice said.

Someone pulled the bag up to expose Billos’s head. They were in a tent. Dirt floor, flaming torches. Several Scabs staring at him, close enough for him to smell every breath.

A man dressed in a black robe stepped up to him. Orange torchlight lit the face of a Scab who stared down at Billos. The robed man wore a hood over his head, his diseased face hidden in shadows. But even so, Billos was struck by a sense of familiarity.

He’d seen this man.

But that was impossible. He’d never seen a live Scab before today, and this wasn’t one of the Scab warriors from the canyons.

“Teeleh’s breath, I cannot stand the sight of that traitor,” one of the original Scabs hissed.

Billos had seen enough Scab meat today to fill a dozen nightmares, but here in the confines of a closed tent, their appearance made him ill. Flaking skin, yellowed by the torches. This one had a large nose, plastered with the powdery “morst” they used to ease the pain of their cracked skin, but blood or some other fluid seeped through the white powder. His muscles bulged, hardened by countless battles, no doubt, slaying the Guard. The man’s imposing form sent a chill through Billos’s bones.

Another Scab stepped up, jerked the sack back over his head, and spit. “If you hope to live out the year, you’d better hold your tongue. He’s one of us now.”