The morning fog pressed down outside the town of White Stone, the Church Court's line of defense silent and still, the entire battlefield resembling a swamp made of piled bodies, with a quiet that chilled the heart.
At the top of the mill, there was a long-forgotten chimney vent.
It was a safety structure from an old era, designed to prevent flour dust explosions, now long devoid of purpose.
The inner walls of the flue were thick with accumulated black soot and moldy flour grime, the color like festering scabs.
Old Hans was stuck in this narrow flue.
This was a place the Church Court's search parties would never glance twice at.
First, there was the smell, the sourness of rotting grains fermenting, the stench of dead rats, grease and soot mixed into a nauseating reek, perfectly masking the scent of living beings.
Even the most sensitive-nosed hounds would wrinkle their noses and turn away upon catching this scent.
