Dain was the first to move. He drew his broadsword with his good hand and walked forward, and Revan followed without being asked.
At fifty meters the shapes were still ambiguous. At thirty the first details came through — a helmet, a rifle barrel, a belt buckle green with age. At twenty there was nothing left to guess about.
Bones. Hundreds of them.
Carpeting both sides of the rail as far as the gray light would reach.
Skulls and ribcages and armor fragments piled over each other, rusted weapons jutting out of the dirt at dead angles, scraps of fabric bleached colorless by years of dead air.
The rail cut through the middle of it all and kept going, southeast, into more of the same.
No smell, which was the strangest part.
Well, maybe not that strange if thought about logically; these bodies had been here for years, and in this vast expanse, the stench of rotting corpses had already dissipated.
A dry, humorless smile touched his lips.
