The wooden planks on the bottom of the horse drawn cart creaked, complaining about the heavy weight set upon them. “… and eight, nine, ten” the small man finished counting the recently dug up corpses as they were piled up unceremoniously atop the vehicle.
He paid each of the grave robbers a silver piece for their work and their silence and hopped at the cart’s seat, tapped the big man holding the reins and signaled forward. Without making a sound the hulking brute whipped the horses with the reins urging them forward, which the animals promptly did.
It was past the middle of the night, the witching hour some folks called it, and they had miles to go before the end of their journey. The cart’s bottom had been covered in straws so they’d soak the putrefying ichors and layers of “stink me not” and other fragrant flowers has been intermingled with the corpses to mask their rotting smell. These were the freshest the small man was able to find, he had even arranged for a few of them to be made into corpses to begin with, as the master had required fresh corpses for the reanimation process. These would have to last a while as the road to the City of the Damned was a long winding one.
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