she didn’t stop. Fear must have pushed her on, fear for her son, fear for herself. Ijanna heard their voices in her dreams, sometimes, calling out for her.
A Dawn Knight tipped a vat of burning oil into one of the pits. More Knights lined up outside the cages and fired in from all sides with crossbows, and when they ran out of bolts they stepped up and shoved their blades through, again and again, sawing through flesh until nothing was left alive.
Ijanna ran, terrified. She didn’t even realize she was screaming.
The stench of bodies turned her stomach. She was so dizzy she could barely focus on the path to the trees. Twenty paces more and she’d be there, in among the cedars at the base of the slope. Sammael was crying.
The shadows of the forest loomed ahead. Every step sent razors of pain up her shins. She clutched Sammael’s hands and kept running.
She fell through the dark. It seemed they’d fallen for years. She knew they weren’t really falling, that all of this was happening in that instant it took for her and Dane’s bodies to plummet through the cutgate , out of the Bonelands and into Chul Gaerog.
What was this? Some defense, some test? Why were these memories so fresh, so real, like she was living it all over again?
She knew what happened next, but she saw it through someone else’s eyes.
Dane felt like vomiting. He ducked beneath a Bloodspeaker’s staff whose tip glowed with potential, another blast of flame aimed for his face, but he swept up with his vra’taar and sliced both of the man’s hands off with one clean strike. The mage screamed and stumbled back long enough for Dane to bring the sword down and cleave the man’s skull in two, and the ruined body fell to the ground.
He stood on the corpse of a dead girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. Dane couldn’t recall if he’d killed her.
The battle raged on around him. The Knights had the upper hand. The Red Hand attackers were being dealt with, but the damage they’d caused was considerable. General Crinn ordered that all prisoners be slaughtered to prevent them from escaping. Dane listened to cries of pain and pleas for mercy. The stench of blood and fear made the air as thick as smoke.
Why was he fighting? He, Ghost, Corva, and a few others had been ready to capture Crinn and put an end to the madness, but then the Red Hand had launched their assault. Reflex drove him, that old desire to protect his friends, his allies, but the moment of calm reminded him how wrong this all was. The killing had to stop, one way or another.
Another blast of flame ripped into a group of Dawn Knights, spattering them across the ground. General Crinn ran a Red Hand Bloodspeaker through with his blade, and as the man sank to the ground he pounded the poor bastard’s skull with a gauntleted fist, again and again, grinding the bone to bloody paste. His vra’taar was greasy with gore and his helmet was gone, revealing a stony face and short dark hair. The General’s tabard had been scorched.
He motioned for Dane to help him, and Dane did so without question, a lifetime of servitude and duty overriding his doubts.
As Dane drew close a pair of prisoners, one man and one woman, ran into Crinn; they didn’t even see him until they smacked into his armor. Crinn hacked off the man’s leg with a clean swipe and left him to bleed and scream, then pushed his blade through the woman’s turned back. She fell to the ground, pinned there by the sword, but kept writhing in pain, so Crinn stomped on her skull with his armored boot, again, a third time, crushing brains and bone, turned beauty to muck on his heel.
Dane watched in horror. This man, this act. He’d done this himself, had been doing it for weeks. His insides twisted. Dane felt the world spinning.
Crinn took hold of him and dragged him forward, as if searching for something. They came to the crest of the
A Dawn Knight tipped a vat of burning oil into one of the pits. More Knights lined up outside the cages and fired in from all sides with crossbows, and when they ran out of bolts they stepped up and shoved their blades through, again and again, sawing through flesh until nothing was left alive.
Ijanna ran, terrified. She didn’t even realize she was screaming.
The stench of bodies turned her stomach. She was so dizzy she could barely focus on the path to the trees. Twenty paces more and she’d be there, in among the cedars at the base of the slope. Sammael was crying.
The shadows of the forest loomed ahead. Every step sent razors of pain up her shins. She clutched Sammael’s hands and kept running.
She fell through the dark. It seemed they’d fallen for years. She knew they weren’t really falling, that all of this was happening in that instant it took for her and Dane’s bodies to plummet through the cutgate , out of the Bonelands and into Chul Gaerog.
What was this? Some defense, some test? Why were these memories so fresh, so real, like she was living it all over again?
She knew what happened next, but she saw it through someone else’s eyes.
Dane felt like vomiting. He ducked beneath a Bloodspeaker’s staff whose tip glowed with potential, another blast of flame aimed for his face, but he swept up with his vra’taar and sliced both of the man’s hands off with one clean strike. The mage screamed and stumbled back long enough for Dane to bring the sword down and cleave the man’s skull in two, and the ruined body fell to the ground.
He stood on the corpse of a dead girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old. Dane couldn’t recall if he’d killed her.
The battle raged on around him. The Knights had the upper hand. The Red Hand attackers were being dealt with, but the damage they’d caused was considerable. General Crinn ordered that all prisoners be slaughtered to prevent them from escaping. Dane listened to cries of pain and pleas for mercy. The stench of blood and fear made the air as thick as smoke.
Why was he fighting? He, Ghost, Corva, and a few others had been ready to capture Crinn and put an end to the madness, but then the Red Hand had launched their assault. Reflex drove him, that old desire to protect his friends, his allies, but the moment of calm reminded him how wrong this all was. The killing had to stop, one way or another.
Another blast of flame ripped into a group of Dawn Knights, spattering them across the ground. General Crinn ran a Red Hand Bloodspeaker through with his blade, and as the man sank to the ground he pounded the poor bastard’s skull with a gauntleted fist, again and again, grinding the bone to bloody paste. His vra’taar was greasy with gore and his helmet was gone, revealing a stony face and short dark hair. The General’s tabard had been scorched.
He motioned for Dane to help him, and Dane did so without question, a lifetime of servitude and duty overriding his doubts.
As Dane drew close a pair of prisoners, one man and one woman, ran into Crinn; they didn’t even see him until they smacked into his armor. Crinn hacked off the man’s leg with a clean swipe and left him to bleed and scream, then pushed his blade through the woman’s turned back. She fell to the ground, pinned there by the sword, but kept writhing in pain, so Crinn stomped on her skull with his armored boot, again, a third time, crushing brains and bone, turned beauty to muck on his heel.
Dane watched in horror. This man, this act. He’d done this himself, had been doing it for weeks. His insides twisted. Dane felt the world spinning.
Crinn took hold of him and dragged him forward, as if searching for something. They came to the crest of the
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