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Quite without direction, I weave my way blindly through the trees, eyes turned down to the dewy grass, whip hanging limply from my paw; and perhaps it is hours, perhaps mere moments, before, instinctively stopping and glancing up, I find the immense figure of Brother Gregor towering over me, rags and mane fluttering in the breeze, jaw rigid, eyes fixed unblinkingly upon me; while behind him, our compatriots meander across a broad and shady stretch of clearing, several of them still sprawled out on the grass, groaning with weariness as they awaken from their slumber.

Not a word is spoken; I simply turn my gaze back down to my feet and make my way into the clearing, where I stand alongside my compatriots as they bustle about me, not one of them speaking a word as they dutifully arrange themselves into a lengthy, ragged column behind Brother Gregor, ready as ever for the day's march.

Though I know not precisely what time of day it might be - for from the moment I woke, a thick, dank blanket of grey cloud has smothered the sky end to end, the light never rising above a colourless, watery dullness - several hours, at least, have passed before, as we clamber over the crest of a gently rolling hill, droplets of our blood delicately sprinkling the grass and dirt behind us, we find ourselves looking down upon a huddle of small buildings - crooked, colourless and weather-beaten - scattered across the stretch of empty field beneath us; and though not a sign of life can be seen amidst them, Brother Gregor hesitates only for a brief second before striding determinately onward toward them, the rest of us keeping tamely on his heels.

A few short moments later, we find ourselves standing at the hill's muddy foot. The dark and dusty windows of the scattered buildings seem to stare, blind and lifeless, out across the empty fields. A figure swathed in rags more grimy and shapeless than our own - rake-thin, and with fur so stringy, overgrown and matted that I cannot for the life of me determine its species - turns a hollow stare up from the stone doorway where it sits; otherwise, not so much as a breath of wind stirs amidst the lifeless houses.

And ahead of us, at the end of a beaten, weed-choked path, in the centre of a muddy square about which many of the other buildings are huddled, sits a wooden church. Though lean and slight in shape, it nonetheless all but towers above the meagre houses; and though its walls are damp with the growing chill of the approaching winter, and its spire, long battered by the elements, is worn, ragged and inclined at a slight angle, it has clearly seen the most diligent maintenance of any of these decaying and wretched little dwellings.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spy one of my fellows disappearing over the threshold of a nearby house. Stepping after him, I peer through the open doorway; and amidst the shadows of its dingy interior, I can just barely discern the outline of Brother Naaman, small and slight, rags hanging in ribbons about his waist, motionless, his attention fixed, as far as I can tell, upon something in the room's far corner hidden amidst the gloom.

I step over the threshold; and blinking heavily, I give my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. The house's interior is a single oblong room, a few square yards at most, and completely bare end to end but for scattered piles of filth and debris; and despite the rapid passage of damp morning breeze in and out of the open doorway, the room's interior is thick with that choking, acrid stench of the Pestilence. I stumble backward slightly, gagging, the stench clogging my gullet, my eyes burning dully; but Brother Naaman, finally noting my presence, spares me only the briefest of glances before turning his eyes back to the darkened far corner.

Squinting, I follow his gaze; and though it is several long minutes before my eyes fully adjust to the dullness, I eventually discern the twisted forms spread out over the grimy floor.

Bodies. Two of them, so far as I can tell, sprawled across the floor beneath a tangle of ancient rags, their fur blackened by layers of filth, their features grotesquely twisted by decay.

I glance back at Brother Naaman, who still stands beside me, staring at the corner, stock-still, unblinking, his expression illegible. And quite suddenly, I find my mind returning to that day, now some weeks past, when, as Brother Gregor led us down that twisting, rain-drenched stretch of lifeless country lane, we stumbled upon that decaying shack of wood and straw. I recall how the stench of the Pestilence wafted in foul, choking waves from the darkened doorway - not since the priory, I remember thinking, had I smelled it so strongly. I recall following Brother Gregor through the doorway and surveying the array of motionless forms sprawled out across the empty floor, decaying, emaciated, fur smeared with dry black patches of blood coughed up from their decaying guts in their final agonising hours. I recall spying, in a far corner, that single, shrunken little figure, flailing feebly about amidst the lifeless bodies like an earthworm amidst filth - a young leopard, naked, gaunt, the patches of blood coating the fur of his muzzle and chest still damp and glistening dully. I recall how Brother Gregor had silently picked up the emaciated form and, for the rest of the day's march, had borne it in his arms over the rolling fields. I recall how, after we had stopped for the night amidst a murky patch of wood, and darkness had settled in, I had watched as Brother Gregor propped the shrunken young leopard against a tree and trussed him to its trunk. I recall how, for what seemed like hours thereafter, Brother Gregor had rained a storm of vicious lashes down upon the leopard's bare back with his whip, chanting verse after verse in a voice so hoarse with weariness and so fraught with fervent, passionate overemphasis and tonal fluctuation that I could barely discern a word. I recall awaking the following morning and seeing the young leopard - now clad in a grimy tangle of spare rags - bent over a muddy stream that twisted through the trees, washing the blood from his fur. I recall how, from that day forth, he has marched alongside us, and how, though my compatriots and I discreetly gave him a cautiously wide berth initially, it soon became clear that - aside from the stench that clung stubbornly about him for several days thereafter - every symptom of the Pestilence had retreated from him. And I recall how, though he has not uttered a word since the day we found him, his passion for our cause is daily bespoken by the fiery fervour that blazes in his eyes as he mercilessly and tirelessly lashes himself.

Blinking, Brother Naaman turns back toward me. I hold the young leopard's stare for a brief moment before silently turning about and stepping back out the gaping doorway. Glancing down the pathway, I see my compatriots staggering aimlessly back and forth across the muddy square, weaving their way between the houses and around the exterior of the church, the flailing of their whips growing ever more sluggish and feeble; for it is now quite obvious that they have no audience but for the dark, hollow stares of the empty houses.

My mind purposelessly adrift, my eyes wandering and unfocused, I find myself sauntering down the pathway toward the square, my paws sinking into the dirt, growing heavy as the dank mud clings to my fur. My whip hangs flaccidly at my side, the impulse to strike it across my back momentarily lost amidst the fractured half-thoughts crowding my mind; and quite suddenly, I find myself standing before the narrow little church, shouldering my way through the doors, which hang ever so slightly ajar.

The church's interior is a muddy, monochromic brown end to end. Narrow and low, the altar and the short arrangement of pews are crammed awkwardly into the confined space. The low, angular rafters lend it an oppressively jagged aesthetic; and but for the broad bronze cross sitting atop the altar, the place is wholly unadorned. And yet the colourless stone floor is cleanly swept, and the arched windows are polished glisteningly clear...

Half-consciously, my gaze drifts to the front of the church. Two figures - dark-furred canines of some variety, from what I can discern - sit side by side in the front pew, wrapped in the worn and colourless garb of peasants. Their heads bowed, they sit in stony, motionless silence. And standing before them - half-visible amidst the patch of dimness between the front pew and the altar - is the figure of an elderly goat, clad in the voluminous white robes of a priest. Short and gaunt, his squinting eyes and twisted, tousled grey fur betray his obvious weariness; but he smiles warmly down at the two bowed figures as he stands over them, his hand resting upon one of their shoulders as he murmurs to them inaudibly.

A moment passes in silence. The sound of my fellows stamping wetly through the mud drifts through the open doorway. Noticing me, the elderly goat slowly raises his eyes, broadening his smile...

The sound of the door being flung against the wall rings out thunderously from behind me; and a stream of dull grey sunlight floods the church's dim interior. The goat's weary eyes widen with bewilderment.

I turn about. Brother Gregor stands in the doorway, towering and silent, his whip dangling from his hand, his shoulders heaving with heavy exhalations.

A minute, perhaps two, pass in silence. Brother Gregor steps forward; and with slow, heavy-hooved deliberateness, begins to make his way down the church's narrow aisle.

Just before the altar stands a crude pulpit - little more, really, than a tall rectangle of wood with a slightly angled top end. Marching past the priest, who looks on in quiet bafflement, and the two bent figures, who sit motionlessly, seemingly oblivious to his presence, Brother Gregor steps up to the pulpit and snatches up the broad, heavy Bible that rests upon its top. I watch as he holds it up to the dim grey light that trickles in through the window above the altar, and, squinting sharply, he closely scrutinises its spine, delicately running a forefinger up and down its length - examining, it seems, precisely where the cracks lie. Then, turning it about in his hands, he proceeds, for perhaps a minute, to rapidly leaf through its pages, occasionally pausing at odd intervals to rapidly scan the words.

Then, turning about, he steps down from the pulpit; and holding the Bible open before him, he strides rapidly toward the elderly goat, who remains frozen with bewilderment.

For a moment, the two of them hold each other's unblinking stares in silence, the two bent figures before them remaining motionless, the sound of my compatriots' heavy stamping and the irregular cracks of their whips continuing to drift through the doorway. Then, slowly, Brother Gregor turns his eyes back down to the open pages before him.

'The creation...' - he leafs several pages forward - '...the birth...' - he turns over another handful of pages - '...the resurrection...' - he lifts his eyes, and once again directs a piercing stare at the goat. 'And do you continue to teach them this now?' He gestures toward the door. 'Those poor souls out there are enduring the full force of God's wrath, and you continue to fatten them on indulgent tales of his love?'

The goat stares silently back. He says nothing, but the fear and bewilderment, I suddenly notice, are beginning to retreat from his expression.

'What worth has God's love without His wrath?' Brother Gregor continues, his voice choked with quiet passion. 'Where lies greater proof of God's love than in His resolve to make certain, by whatever means, that His children are made to understand how deeply they have fallen from His grace?'

The goat's eyes have hardened, and his expression is now unreadable; but he remains silent.

Brother Gregor begins leafing through the pages rapidly once more. 'And I can only assume they hear nothing from you about the truly significant parts of His word. Yes? The original sin? The apocalypse? The many plagues that He has rained down upon defilers of His word in the past? The foul depths of sin and depravity to which He has watched his children sink?'

The goat stares back silently; I see his bony jaw grow taut.

'Do you realise the consequences of your impotence as a servant of God? Do you comprehend that your coddling has doomed every last one of those wretched souls?' Though Brother Gregor's voice remains low, I can hear the stifling rage building up in his throat.

The goat folds his scrawny arms across his chest. He stares. He says nothing.

The heavy tome slips from Brother Gregor's fingers and, with a deep, resounding thud that rings against the low ceiling, falls to the floor. Silently, Brother Gregor raises his hands; and slowly, ever so slowly - almost tenderly - he wraps his fingers around the goat's scrawny neck. They enfold his throat; and steadily, they sink down upon it.

The goat stands motionless; but for the briefest of moments, his eyes widen...

A sharp, piercing crack rings through the church's silent interior. Brother Gregor's hands fall to his side. With barely a sound beyond the rustle of his robes, the goat falls flaccidly to the floor, his head and neck twisted about at a hideously abnormal angle.

Brother Gregor turns toward me. His piercing gaze penetrates me.

Only vaguely do I register the knotted whip slipping from my paw and falling to the floor; and barely a conscious thought passes through my mind as I watch myself turn about, step out the church's narrow doorway, weave my rapid way through the tiny cluster of houses and bent, ragged figures, and hasten out across the open grass. Consciousness has only barely caught up with me when - perhaps an hour, or perhaps barely five minutes - later, amidst a damp grove of aged and gnarled trees, I stop, feebly sway for a moment, and collapse into the mud, my head reeling frantically.