1 A Harvest Of Souls 1

The city, the mushroom fields, the decrepit factories latched onto the boundary walls like steel tumours – the pyromancers burned them all.

Sam watched their work from a great distance. So great, in fact, she could reach out and tap the closest pyro on the shoulder. The heat came at her in waves. The dormitories have collapsed into amorphous heaps. There was nothing left.

The Guild of Combustion enforced a strict hierarchy regarding the wearing of masks, and smoke inhalation was expected of pyros in the field. Sam's team was massacred with soot and ash; Sam could barely make out their faces. Wave at them, she instructed herself. Speak.

She waved; clipboard in one hand, red-ink pen in the other. 'We can go now,' she heard herself say.

Between the city boundary and the Hill of Nine was a span of mushroom fields. The fungal mounds had been reduced to blackened domes. Blue-fire danced on the irrigation lines, carving a shimmering maze across the rolling hills.

Sam was exhausted. The day's work had wrung every drop of energy from her body. Still, she walked with her shoulders squared and her chin held high, for she was wearing the plague mask of the House of Dawn. An apprentice's mask was their privilege and their sanity; to be seen dissatisfied while donning such a coveted symbol would end her career.

A farmhouse appeared over the ridge. Twenty pyros in white robes has it surrounded, led by an apprentice in bright-orange robes – the colour of the House of Solutions. A window flew open on the farmhouse roof. Three faces peeked out, a woman with two young girls. They looked thin, but their screams were loud.

Look away, Sam warned herself, but it was too late. The apprentice was already waving at her. Ignoring him now would precipitate a formal complaint against her conduct and give James another excuse to deduct from her salary. Assist each other in the field, so says clause 3 of the Manual of Professional Conduct for Necromancers.

The orange-masked apprentice had the posture of a corpse. His shoulders were slumped, his trousers tattered, as if chewed through. His hair hung limp with a coat of ash. He shook Sam's hand with the strength of a windblown leaf.

"Help me," he muttered. "I know this is my sector but I was on the palisade. Had a long day."

The pyros watched the house from every approach. The woman was still screaming. Pretending to be deaf was growing difficult.

"We can't leave witnesses," the apprentice said, mostly to himself. "Maestro Finley would not allow it."

"You don't need me," said Sam.

"Where are you from? House of Dawn? Please, you do it. I need a take a break."

"I was also on the palisade."

"I don't care," he snapped.

The pyros parted ranks, revealing an ambler on approach. The thing was barely held together. Its neck was broken; its head dangled and bounced. The left half of its face was putrefied; chunks of rotten flesh had fallen away, revealing a mess of tendon and bone. Jittering in its eye sockets were two pieces of quartz, one twice the size of the other. There was a cut on the its hip. Purple infusion gushed out in spurts, drenching its orange overalls. Dehydrated intestines slapped its calves with every step.

It held out a piece of paper. The apprentice ignored it, his lips moving forming words no one could hear.

At the window, the woman became quiet. Her face and the faces of her children disappeared into the house. A pyro took the slip and slapped it into the apprentice's chest.

Sam looked away, and looked away, and looked away. After an eternity, she heard two words.

"Burn them."