The Book of Past Deeds

I can still recall the words in that accursed tome and the events leading up to my misfortune, though I recall nothing else. Deep within the barren wastes of the Mere of Martyrs, there is a rolling fog that carries lost and unfortunate souls to realms beyond our own. Beneath the rotten mud and rusted metal are the bones of our grandfathers. Their spirits wish to escape but can find no respite even in death.
I spent my first week wading from one tattered flag to the next, marking my path with the bones of a wild hog that made the same mistake I did. Great craters that bombs once carved from the earth were now tiny ponds with a green scum as a skin atop them. One was so large that a dying cedar tree had made the hole its home. A rotted wooden cart lay in pieces nearby. Inside, a brown collection of shattered bones clung to a leather binding that hardly protected the rotting pages within. I should have left that book where I found it.
I felt the rough surface of the book as I stole it from the man in the cart. I made an attempt to open the book only to find that my vision was fading and the pages with it. The sky, once overcast and gray, was now scattered with tufts of cloud about a spring blue background. My eyes protested the sudden change of light as I stood. About me were a group of men walking in a formation. Their tabards were purple, emblazoned with the heads of horned mares. Each had a pike in one hand and a heavy wooden shield brought close to their body.
Not one of them seemed to see me, as I was like the air: ever-present but not acknowledged. I passed by a few of the stern young men that were tensely affixed on the horizon. I spoke their tongue, but I could not make out a word that escaped from their lips. The leader of this particular regiment I was stuck in with wore a mustache proudly upon his olive skin. No taller than six heads, he proudly spoke as the gentle breeze played with the tassels of his epaulets and tossed the dark curly hair beneath his bicorne hat.
I felt myself carried toward the hill on the horizon as though I was marching with the other levies. I felt a pounding in my chest and heard the heartbeat travel into my ears. If fear had a taste, I would think it to be coppery like blood. My jaw was set and firm; teeth clenched so tight that I thought they were at risk of exploding from my mouth. I heard the pounding of a drum behind me to guide my stride. Ahead, what sounded to be a horn was playing an anthem I hadn't yet heard. Somehow, however, I recognized it. This recollection wasn't pleasant. It made me feel bitter as though the horn itself had wronged me.
I feel my arms raise, my pike comes into view and my board-like shield covers my chest. Men with swords surrounded the horn player and the blue flag with a hawk upon it. Faster, I feel the tenseness leaving my body as I open my mouth to roar, but no sound. All I see are small specks filling the sky like rain. Arrows. Blackness. A deep burning pain in my chest. My eyes hardly wish to be open as I reach for something - anything to stand myself up with. The sky is black and the land around me is damp and dead. I touch rotten wood. Sitting atop my chest is a leather-bound collection of yellowed pages.