Frostpunk Divine Throne-Chapter 9: Ark

The next morning, they set out again.
The wind and snow were no different from yesterday, but the alcohol thermometer showed the temperature had reached -15°C, three degrees lower than yesterday.
"I hope it won't keep getting colder..." Cyren prayed in his heart.
The railroad tracks that served as landmarks were buried half a meter deep in accumulated snow, which continuously slowed their progress, they had to first determine the direction the tracks extended before they could continue forward.
Fortunately, after walking four miles, a village appeared faintly ahead.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Matilda excitedly dragged the sled forward at a run, and Cyren also quickened his pace by a few steps.
It was a common northern-style village. Houses made of dark gray sandstone and thatched roofs were casually laid out on the land. Thick accumulated snow covered the doorways and had even collapsed several roofs.
There wasn't a sound in the village.
Cyren pulled open a half-closed door, and then a completely frozen corpse suddenly crashed onto him. The terrified expression and blue-black face struck against Cyren's neck.
He was so frightened he forgot to cry out and sat down hard on the ground. That rigid villager's corpse landed right in his arms.
"What happened?" Aldridge came over upon hearing the sound. Cyren forcibly suppressed his trembling voice, "Dead."
It was the corpse of a middle-aged man, wearing only a thin summer linen shirt, his entire body frozen blue-black.
He had tried hard to crawl to the door, attempting to leave his home, but at the moment of grasping the door, he had been frozen to death directly. His whole body was as rigid as ice.
Cyren laid the corpse on the ground and traced a cross on his chest.
"This one's dead too," came Kyle's voice from the distance. This young man who had repeatedly witnessed death sat on the ground with blank eyes, tightly gripping the cross Cyren had given him. It seemed only this thing could bring him a trace of security.
Cyren sighed and continued forward.
Matilda had already run to the very front. This girl had always been action-oriented. Judging from her hair color, she was probably a Hibernian from the west. Their hair color was mostly red, and they brewed excellent whiskey.
"The numbers don't match up," she said, opening door after door. "There are fewer dead than houses, and all the doors are open, indicating quite a few villagers didn't freeze to death but just left here."
The others all accepted this conclusion. Logan even found some footprints and cart tracks in the snow nearby.
The group continued walking for a distance and heard some sounds carried by the wind.
"I won't..."
"You must..."
"There's no time..."
Their spirits lifted, and they all quickened their pace toward the direction of the sounds.
A dark mass gradually emerged in the wind and snow, accompanied by noisy human voices that seemed to be cursing at each other.
"My cow died! Just because you stopped me! If we'd left earlier we'd have reached Spessay long ago!"
"I'm sorry, but if the chaos had continued, you'd have died on the road too."
"You owe me for my cow!"
"That's right. Not letting us bring chickens was bad enough, but how are we supposed to live without bringing cows..."
"My geese!"
A group of villagers surrounded a young soldier, constantly berating and accusing him.
In the crowd, mothers holding children knelt on the ground for warmth. Small children holding hands stood alone and forlorn. Hunched old people leaned on men's backs, and an old man leading a dead cow was angrily cursing the soldier.
There were probably over forty people there. Their eyes showed anger or confusion, but more than anything, fear and anxiety.
"What are you doing?" Cyren said, holding his pastoral staff. Little angels singing hymns appeared behind him, soothing music resounding in the void. People's gazes turned toward him.
"O Lord!" People knelt down one after another in prayer. Only that young soldier still stood in place, somewhat embarrassed.
"I am the Bishop of the Spessay Diocese," Cyren said, looking at the soldier. "What's going on?"
The soldier struck his chest with his right fist in a military salute, "Lord Bishop, I was ordered by the Governor of Spessay to come here and guide the villagers to the shelter."
"I see," Cyren looked around. "You wouldn't let them bring their cattle, is that right?"
The soldier was somewhat embarrassed, "We have no way to bring livestock so far. This is the order from above. Only people can go."
Cyren nodded, "Then are there various types of livestock in Spessay City?"
"Of course there are, sir. And actually, villages that are closer can bring livestock, but this place is four miles from Spessay..."
Cyren nodded, then said to the villagers, "You see, the apocalypse has arrived, just as foretold in scripture. Haven't you heard those words? 'Of every living thing of all flesh, you shall bring two of every sort into the ark, male and female, to keep them alive with you.' Spessay is an ark established under God's prophecy, but besides believers, livestock may not enter at will. Otherwise, wouldn't that take the place of believers? Which of God's children would you have suffer in the wind and snow?"
As soon as the words fell, the kneeling villagers all cried out, "Have mercy, Lord Bishop! Forgive me! Your words are like God's words. I was wrong. We were all wrong. We are willing to do everything we can to atone. Please lead us!"
Facing the masses kneeling all over the ground, Cyren remained silent, but a startling sense of discomfort and vigilance surged in his heart.
So this was the power he held in his hands?
He recalled Matilda's words. He was a bishop. Since he had taken up the pastoral staff, he had to shoulder such responsibility and destiny.
With one sentence he could make the masses weep. His mere appearance could make people kneel. That unreserved trust mixed with ignorance made Cyren feel immense pressure.
"Stand up," he said. "Now, let's go to Spessay together."
That young soldier looked at Cyren, a terrible emotion lingering.
What he had labored to say for ages, the bishop had resolved with one sentence. Was this divine authority?
Cyren distributed the excess winter clothes and food from the sled to the people and had them place their heavier personal items on the sled. Then he selected several strong men to take turns pulling the sled.
Thus, this team of fifty people headed toward Spessay.
On the road, Cyren asked the soldier some things about that city.
The soldier had only recently gone to Spessay. He had originally been one of Rain Hoffman's guards. This Imperial general had been appointed Governor of Spessay by the Queen two months ago and was the top authority in the area.
Going back a few hundred years, bishops were still regional powerhouses who could even become emperor through election. But not now. At least within the Albion Empire, a regional bishop's real power was far less than a regional governor's.
And more importantly, according to what the soldier said, Rain had a guard force of over seventy people, and the over two hundred militiamen of Spessay were also under his command.
The Church had also assigned him a guard, but unfortunately, only Logan and Kyle remained.