A loud mechanized rattle from the back of the truck caused his heart to leap into his throat. Someone was opening the tailgate. The stiff corpses at the rear of the truck jolted into a sickening downward shift, and Everson knew it would only be moments before he was caught up in the slide.

He slithered over the side of the vehicle, hung from the lip for a moment, then dropped twice his body length to the ground. He landed flatfooted and was immediately deposited on his rear with a forced and audible grunt. With no time to think about how much it hurt, Everson scrambled into the scant cover of the trees. He flattened himself in the ashes of his enemy and peered wide-eyed behind him.

It appeared that he had avoided detection, mostly because all eyes were now trained on the ceremony beginning around the pyres. The twin suns, Femera and Amali, sat higher in the sky, and their unforgiving light gave stark clarity to the sorrowful faces of the mourners.

They were suddenly people to Everson, no longer just the enemy, and his heart went out to them: the wives, the children, the parents.

Two figures stood out from the rest, not only because they waited on a raised platform, but because they possessed the unmistakable air of authority. The woman, especially, was adorned in such an ornate and regal manner Everson wondered if Queen Nor herself was deigning to reign over such a lugubrious affair.

Everson had learned many of the Manolithic beliefs and practices in his studies, but their funereal rituals remained foreign to him. He watched now, feeling more than just a little guilt.

* * *

The Which waited on the raised dais beside the intimidating presence of the Grand Incinerator, highest priest of their order. He wore flowing black robes that only heightened the ashen features of his face. He stood, unmoving, a sword held in one hand, as if he were a statue erected in the name of inscrutable judgment.

Extending far to the side of the dais stood a long line of similarly clad, but lesser priests, each waiting patiently before their respective scaffolds. The number of mourners huddled behind them made it clear that no denizen of Front Tier was untouched by loss. The Which could sense the oppressive aura of sorrow held barely at bay. It would break soon, she knew, like a cloud swollen with rain. A lesser priest led an obedient birdun to the foot of the dais, and she knew the time had come.

“Grand Incinerator, commit the souls of our fallen to the Light,” The Which ordered.

The Grand Incinerator stepped from the platform and approached the trusting birdun. He raised his sword and pointed it ceremoniously at the twin suns.

“Warmen of Mano, we honor your sacrifice,” he said, his voice strong but raspy, as if it had rusted with disuse.

With surprising strength and violence, the Grand Incinerator plunged his sword into the heart of the birdun. Accustomed to the primitive practice, The Which remained impassive as the creature screamed in agony, its head whipping wildly atop its long neck. It staggered, still bleating, and then slumped heavily to the ground, eyes rolling madly, its sides heaving in death throes. One of the large laborers, more muscled than most, stepped forward and, with one mighty heave, rolled the quivering beast beneath the first scaffold.