Jayson and Corim stumbled into Cobble Kill with the sunset, the sheet of thin clouds overhead blazing with a deep burnt orange. Jayson halted at the end of the stone bridge over the stream that gave the town its name, leaning heavily against a stone pillar with a lantern already lit at its top. Corim slumped down on the stone abutment of the bridge.
“We’re almost there, Corim.”
He tried to keep the words light and encouraging, but it had been a long walk and neither one of them had slept much since the night of the attack. It had taken them three days to reach Cobble Kill, which would normally take a day on horseback. They had seen no one on the road the first two days, but that afternoon, while taking a break near a small creek, they had heard a horse-drawn cart trundle past on the dirt road. Corim had shot Jayson a terrified glance, his body rigid with fear. Jayson had shushed him with a hand gesture, motioned him to stay still. He’d been facing the road and had caught glimpses of the cart through the heavy undergrowth.
He hadn’t thought it was a threat, but he wouldn’t take the chance. Not with Corim at his side.
“Let’s find the Legion’s garrison,” he said, staring down toward the town square. He pushed himself away from the stone pillar and urged Corim up from his seat. The boy groaned, but came along. Jayson kept one hand on his shoulder, in case he collapsed.
Cobble Kill claimed three taverns and an inn, a stable, two smithies, and three mercantiles, one from each of the three major trading companies. All of its streets were paved with cobblestone and converged on a main square lined with two-story buildings, a few with balconies overlooking the square. Nearly all of the buildings were made of river stone. Shutters were drawn and windows glowed with candle or lantern light. More of the stone pillars topped with lanterns lined the road into the square and Jayson and Corim followed them as the day faded and night fell. A burst of laughter and noise spilled from one of the tavern doors as it was opened and someone staggered into the street. Both Jayson and Corim stiffened, Corim drawing a step closer. But the man didn’t see them, moving off toward the west.
Jayson scanned the street, noted the horses and two carts that marked the taverns and inn and the low fence that surrounded the stable yard. Wind sighed through the trees, new spring leaves rustling. He didn’t see anything that looked like a Legion garrison. He’d been to Cobble Kill a few times before, delivering ground grain to the mercantiles, but he’d never had need of the garrison before.
Without any idea of where to go, he moved toward the nearest tavern. Corim hesitated at the door, but glanced out into the settling darkness with a shudder and followed Jayson inside.
There were at least a dozen men and women seated at rough wooden tables arranged around a central hearth, the fire low, a pot on an iron hook set over the flames. Lanterns hung from the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling, a set of stairs angling up to the rooms above to one side, opposite the hearth. A pair of doors led to the kitchen in the back.
As he halted inside the door, the raucous laughter trailed off, everyone taking notice of them. Most were simply curious, trading questioning glances and receiving shrugs in return. One or two expressions were hostile for no apparent reason.
Before the silence could become awkward, the doors to the kitchen opened and a woman stepped through, hair held back with a folded scarf, an apron tied around her broad waist. “Got yer venison right here, Carl, no need to-oh!”
She halted as she saw them, a platter with steaming meat held aloft in one hand, a mug of ale in the other. But only for a moment. A smile broke across her initial surprise, then she set the platter and ale down in front of Carl. She wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, her gaze dropping to Corim, then back to Jayson, settling on the bloodstained sleeve of his arm and the torn cloth he’d used to bandage the wound.
“You two look famished. Need a room for the night? Some food?”
Jayson’s stomach growled, but he shook his head. “We’re looking for the Legion’s garrison. We’re from Gray’s Kill.”
She frowned. “Not much of a garrison here, more like an outpost now, although it used to be larger.”
“Where is it?”
“Left, down the main road about a half mile.”
Jayson gripped Corim’s shoulder harder as the boy began to list. He reached down to support him with his other hand and said, “Thank you,” but before he could move them toward the door Corim sagged into him.
He caught him as the woman cried out, reaching forward to catch the boy’s other arm.
“Here, now, he’s so exhausted he can’t stand! And so are you,” she added reprovingly. She dragged Corim toward the nearest empty chair and sat him down, Jayson forced to follow. When she stood, she pointed to a second seat and said with a glare, “Sit.”
Her glare darkened when Jayson made to protest, so he swallowed his words and slid wearily into the proffered chair. The woman nodded and swept off. He leaned forward onto the table and his own exhaustion swept over him, shaking his shoulders and trembling in his arms and legs. He knew the rest of the tavern’s patrons were watching them both, but he didn’t care enough to glance up.
He heard the door to the kitchen kicked open and a moment later two bowls of stew clattered to the table before him and Corim. He shoved back from the table, but before he could mention that they had no coin to pay for it, the woman said, “Eat. You both need the strength.”
There was no questioning the command in her voice. And when he breathed in the rich scent of the stew, he found his body wouldn’t let him protest. He pulled it toward him, noticed that the smell had roused Corim as well, the boy shifting forward, snatching up the spoon, and shoveling the stew in as fast as he could. They’d had only not-quite-ripe berries and whatever tubers and leeks Jayson could scavenge for the past three days.
“Thank you,” Jayson managed, before diving into his own bowl. Corim muttered something that may have been thanks around a mouthful, and the woman nodded.
“I’ll be back with some bread. Don’t eat it all before then. And Carl-” she said, spinning toward the man, who froze, a forkful of venison half raised toward his mouth, “-get yer lazy ass out of that chair and hike it down to the garrison. Bring back one of the Legionnaires. This man needs to speak to him.”
Carl grumbled something under his breath, then shoved the forkful into his mouth, chewing as he rose and wiped his hands on his breeches. He eyed the two from Gray’s Kill, then shook his head and stalked out into the night, the door slamming shut behind him.
“Jayson.” The woman turned as he spoke. “My name’s Jayson Freeholt, and this is my apprentice Corim.”
“Pleased to meet you, Jayson and Corim.” Corim flinched at his name and the woman frowned, casting a sharp eye at Jayson. “My name’s Ara and this is my tavern.” She held out her hand and Jayson shook it. Her grip was strong, which shouldn’t have been a surprise. She was built solidly, broad shoulders and body, ample breasts, round face. Not fat, but stout, her carriage no-nonsense. “What brings you to Cobble Kill?”
The stew in Jayson’s mouth turned tasteless. He swallowed with difficulty and set his spoon back in the bowl. “Someone attacked Gray’s Kill,” he said, his voice hoarse.
The words unlocked something in his chest he’d held onto tightly since the night of the attack, all of the images-the smoke, the reflected fire, the hissing of the creatures that had struck from the darkness, and the chill of sleeping on the barge in the middle of the river-all of it flooding back in a sudden wave. He choked on it, his heart seizing, tears burning at the corners of his eyes, but before they could spill over, he heard Corim sob.
He reached out without thinking and drew the boy close to him, the youth burying his head in Jayson’s chest, snuffling loudly. The murmurs that had started up as soon as Ara returned with the stew stilled again, and Jayson looked up to find that Ara herself had drawn back a step in horror, one hand raised to her mouth.
“Who?” she asked. Then, with more force, “Who attacked Gray’s Kill?”
Jayson shook his head. “I don’t know. We never made it back to the village. We were attacked by creatures on the road, and then the dwarren came-”
At mention of the dwarren the people in the tavern gasped and broke into excited conversation, the sound cutting Jayson off. An elderly man spat to one side and muttered, “I never did trust those earth-diggers. Bunch of sneaky bastards, they are.” A round of general agreement passed through the room, Ara looking on in disapproval, hands now on hips.
The anger that had been stirred might have escalated if the door hadn’t opened and one of the Legionnaires stepped into the tavern, followed by Carl.
Dressed in armor, he blocked the door, although he wasn’t a bulky man. His gray eyes swept the room, taking in everything with one glance, his gaze settling on Jayson and Corim with a frown. He held himself with a stiff, military bearing, head high, shoulders back, feet placed firmly. Yet when he took the few steps from the door to their table, removing his helmet, his motions were smooth. One hand fell casually to the pommel of the sword strapped to his side as he cradled the helmet with the other. He couldn’t have been more than a few years older than Jayson.
“You wished to speak to the Legion?” he asked gruffly. His eyes measured both Jayson and Corim. “If it is about enlisting, there’s a general call held every-”
“It’s not about enlisting, Gregson,” Ara cut in sharply. “He says Gray’s Kill has been attacked.”
Jayson wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Gregson straightened where he stood.
“Attacked,” he said, the word sharp but hesitant. “By whom?”
Jayson opened his mouth, but Ara beat him to it. “He doesn’t know. Creatures, he said, and the dwarren!”
Gregson’s frown deepened. “Is this true?”
“Yes.”
The Legionnaire glanced around the room, at the avid faces of the other patrons, then sighed. He set his helmet on the table. “May as well question you here,” he muttered, “rather than risk rumors running rampant after we leave.” He pulled the chair up opposite Jayson and Corim and seated himself, his armor making his position awkward. “Now, explain what happened.”
Jayson drew in a deep breath to steady himself, then launched into the story, relating everything that had happened from the moment they stepped out of the mill to arriving in Cobble Kill. Corim added a few comments when asked directly by Gregson but otherwise remained quiet. The rest of the patrons were silent except for an occasional snort or gasp. Ara listened attentively, but kept everyone’s mugs of ale full, even bringing Gregson a cup, which he did not drink.
Gregson said nothing at first when Jayson finished. He leaned back in his chair and regarded both Jayson and Corim intently. Then: “Let me see your arm.”
Jayson shifted forward and began unwinding the hasty bandage he’d placed on the wound. The recitation of the attack had numbed him, his motions slow, even though the stew had restored some of his strength. He grimaced when the last few lengths of torn cloth pulled at the cuts.
The claw marks were reddened, swollen, and crusted with scabs. A few fresh dots of blood welled up where the removal of the bandage had reopened the wound.
He held his arm out for Gregson, who grunted as he leaned forward to examine it, taking Jayson’s arm and twisting it this way and that in the lantern light. Ara craned over his shoulder, then tsked and disappeared into the back room again. She returned before Gregson had finished, fresh bandages hung over one arm and a squat jar of unguent in one hand.
“Those are some serious wounds,” Gregson said as he finished. “Not from any animal I’ve ever seen.”
“One of them caught my leg as well.”
Gregson’s eyes dropped to his leg. The skeptical note had faded from his voice.
Ara had already begun attending to his arm. He hissed as she slathered the first layer of unguent across the cuts, the thick paste stinging, but he held still as she began tying fresh bandages across it.
Gregson appeared to reach a decision, standing and taking up his helmet. “We’ll need to see Gray’s Kill before I send someone to Hartleton or Temeritt. Rest up here, if Ara’s got the rooms to spare-”
“Of course I do,” she said succinctly, looking to Jayson and then Corim with a smile.
“-and I’ll gather together some of the Legion. I’d like you to accompany us, if you would, Jayson.”
Jayson frowned as Ara tied off the last bandage and patted his arm, even as relief flooded through him, the burden of responsibility lifting from his shoulders. He had intended to return once he passed on the warning. He needed to find out what had happened to Lianne.
“I’m coming, too.”
Both Jayson and Gregson turned at Corim’s quiet declaration. The youth had said little on the trek to Cobble Kill, sunk into a state of shock. But now something had sparked in his eyes. He sat up straight in his chair, his face haggard and exhausted, but lined with determination.
At Gregson’s frown of disapproval, the apprentice turned toward Jayson. “I can’t stay here. I need to find my parents.” His voice broke slightly, but he crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly.
Jayson grimaced and turned to Gregson.
The Legionnaire settled his helmet into place. “He’s twelve, of age. He can come if he wishes.”
Gregson appeared early the next morning with three other members of the Legion and two additional horses. Ara stood beside both Jayson and Corim outside the tavern as they rode up from the eastern road. The youngest appeared to be no more than eighteen.
“Gregson is a good man,” Ara said, “and a better Legionnaire than he believes himself to be. You’ll be safe with him.” She patted Corim on the shoulder, then stepped back as the group of Legion approached.
Gregson motioned to the three men who accompanied him. “This is Terson, my second, and Curtis and Ricks.” Terson gave them a curt nod; both Curtis and Ricks smiled. “I’ve brought you mounts.”
Jayson glanced at the two animals skeptically, but stepped forward. He’d ridden before, of course, but not for long distances and never on horses as fine as these. He helped Corim into the saddle first, the youth tense with fear and excitement, petting his mount’s neck after situating himself in the saddle, then Jayson swung himself onto his own horse.
Gregson kicked his mount into motion and the rest followed with little prompting.
They rode out of Cobble Kill, a rock promontory that Jayson had not seen in the fading light the night before jutting out of the forest over the town to the north. Trees closed in immediately after they crossed the stone bridge, sunlight dappling the road beneath as the leaves rustled in a faint breeze. Dust danced beneath the foliage above the undergrowth to either side, passing from shadow to light, but Jayson found himself paying more attention to remaining on his horse than the scenery. The pace was swift.
They rode throughout the day, pausing often to rest the horses and once to eat. As they drew closer to Gray’s Kill, Gregson slowed, to Jayson’s relief. After taking the northern fork when the road split, he dropped the pace even further.
As they rode toward the break that would lead toward the barge, Jayson found himself scanning the edge of the road, watching the shadows beneath the forest. His gaze darted from side to side, toward the shivering bush as a squirrel shot away with an annoyed chatter or the flutter of a bird startled from its branch. Sweat broke out across his shoulders and his breath quickened.
He nearly jumped out of his saddle when Ricks sidled closer and said in an undertone, “Relax.”
Jayson turned toward him, caught the confident grin on the younger man’s face. A wave of shame slicked through the apprehension in his gut and he straightened slightly.
“I don’t know what we’re going to find in Gray’s Kill,” he said.
Ricks frowned at the tone of his voice, pulling back slightly, but before Jayson could explain Gregson slowed to a halt and motioned Jayson forward. Corim remained behind, his horse skittish, picking up on the apprentice’s unease. He saw the youth’s eyes flick toward the shadows beneath the trees.
Gregson nodded toward the road ahead. As soon as they left the main road, it had begun winding through the cuts and gorges of the area, stone outcroppings and sharp slopes visible through the trees. “How much farther until we reach the barge?”
“Another hour at most,” Jayson answered. “It’s hard to tell. I’ve never traveled the road on horseback before. I’ve always had a cart laden with sacks slowing me down.”
“I see.” The Legionnaire looked toward the sun, already low on the horizon. “We should have enough time to reach the village before sunset then. But I want to proceed with caution in case whatever attacked is still around.”
“We didn’t see anyone on the road to Cobble Kill when we fled.”
Gregson turned toward him with a raised eyebrow. “Perhaps because they stayed in Gray’s Kill.”
Jayson’s stomach tightened and he felt sick.
Without a word, they moved down the road toward the river, the four soldiers forming up around Jayson and Corim, their swords loosened in their sheaths, their eyes scanning the trees as they moved. The apprehension that had seized Jayson on the road returned and his mouth went dry.
An hour later, they reached the barge. It appeared to be in the same place he and Corim had left it, unused since that night.
Jayson felt his heart shudder, grief welling up inside. But he forced it down.
Gregson and Terson slid from their horses and led them onto the barge. Jayson dropped down to the ground, but then froze. His breath had quickened, a sense of light-headedness enfolding him, but he swallowed and climbed onto the barge before anyone could comment, Curtis giving him an odd look. Corim followed him, Curtis and Ricks bringing up the rear, and then they were moving across the river, the Legion pulling on the rope to draw them across.
Gregson stepped off of the barge and onto the dock before it had come to a rest, Terson behind, both leading their horses. He contemplated the forest, the sun slanting through the trees at a sharp angle now, then turned to Jayson.
“Show us Gray’s Kill.”
Jayson moved to the front of the group with Gregson, the rest of the Legion drawing their swords. As he struck out down the main road, he glanced to either side, scanning the area where the dwarren had appeared and then vanished. But of course there was no sign of them.
They reached the lane.
“My mill is down there,” he called back.
Gregson nodded and sent Curtis and Ricks down the lane, their horses left behind with Terson, but motioned Jayson forward.
Swallowing, Jayson continued. He saw nothing in the undergrowth, nothing in the trees, no movement at all, and the silence was unnatural. He’d lived in Gray’s Kill for nearly fifteen years, since moving there to run the new mill. They were close enough now there should have been sounds from the village-someone chopping wood, dogs barking, the clang of hammer and metal from the smithy, perhaps even a few shouts from children. But there were no signs of life, not even the smell of woodsmoke.
Then he rounded the last bend and halted in the middle of the road. Gregson, Terson, and Corim drew up behind him.
Terson swore.
The village was gone. The smithy, the tavern, the mercantile, and church were nothing but husks of blackened wood and stone. Only one wall of the church remained standing, the stone of the other three blocking the road to one side in a low heap. The fire pit of the smithy sat in the middle of a few charred timbers. And among all of the ruin, among all that remained of the village, lay bodies.
Tears burned his eyes and threatened to choke Jayson as the horror of that night returned. He smelled the thick smoke as he half dragged Corim away from the backwash of fire he knew had come from the center of town, felt the heat searing his face and tasted the ash as the smoke blew over the road.
He’d known this was what they would find, but he hadn’t been able to accept it. Not until now.
Gray’s Kill was dead.
Someone shifted past him, brushing his arm, and he started, raised a hand to scrub away the tears fiercely as he watched Gregson move to one of the bodies near what had been the entrance to the tavern. Terson was tying the horses off near the trees at the side of the road.
“Who was this?” the Legionnaire asked, kneeling down to stare at the man’s face.
Jayson could barely bring himself to look. What if it were Lianne? But he knew it wasn’t. He could tell by the shredded and bloodstained clothing it was a man.
“Tobin,” he said, voice rough. “He was the blacksmith.”
All four of them turned as Curtis and Ricks returned, their boots crunching in the gravel of the road. Their eyes were wide with shock as they entered the village.
“Nothing but the mill down the lane,” Curtis reported. “It’s still standing, untouched.”
Gregson stood and the rest of the Legion began moving through the village, looking at the bodies, nudging them with their feet or the tips of their swords or scanning the forest to either side.
“The animals have gotten to them,” Terson said.
“That’s to be expected. They’ve been left out in the open for over three days.” Gregson shaded his eyes from the sun as he looked up. “I’m surprised there aren’t any crows here now, though.”
“It wasn’t animals that got them,” Jayson muttered under his breath, thinking of the creature that had ripped into his arm and clawed his leg.
From his right, Curtis cast him a sidelong look. He hadn’t realized he’d spoken loud enough for anyone close to hear.
“Fan out!” Gregson ordered.
Jayson frowned. “What are you looking for?” he asked Curtis.
The soldier shrugged. “A sign of whoever did this.”
Jayson felt anger spark deep inside him, deeper than the grief. “But I already told you who did this. It was those… those things! Those creatures! The demons with the lantern eyes!”
Curtis shifted uncomfortably. “The GreatLord will need proof-”
“The Diermani-cursed things attacked me!” Jayson growled and shoved back the sleeve of his shirt to expose the bandage from the still-healing claw marks on his forearm. He’d drawn breath to argue further, Curtis’ face skeptical, when Terson shouted.
Everyone turned, Gregson and Ricks already moving toward the second, who stood over one of the bodies near the edge of the stone church. Curtis trotted forward as well; Jayson and Corim trailed behind. Jayson didn’t need to see any more bodies.
But when everyone tensed and drew back, hands tightening on their swords, Gregson grunting, he stepped forward.
It wasn’t one of the villagers. It was one of the dwarren, the body lying on its back, the pale face staring upward. The hands were arranged together across the chest, over the braided and bead-woven beard, a small ax clutched in their grip. The legs were laid out straight.
It didn’t look like the dwarren had died in battle. There were no wounds, and the body had obviously been arranged, almost ritualistically.
“So,” Gregson said, voice tight, as the Legion’s faces on all sides turned grim, “the dwarren were here. There hasn’t been a dwarren attack on Province lands in over a hundred years. GreatLord Kobel needs to be informed immediately.”
The angry silence was broken a moment later by Corim. He clutched at Jayson’s arm, his eyes too wide, his face too open. No one should ever see such vulnerability in another person’s soul. “My parents,” he whispered.
Lianne, Jayson thought, but he fought the urge to abandon Corim and the others and race to his cottage. He wasn’t sure he could face what he’d find there yet. He glanced around at all of the bodies scattered around the small village center and swallowed against the stone lodged in his throat. “Let’s look,” he said to Corim.
They began searching, Corim dashing from body to body, his actions growing more and more frantic even as tears gathered and then trailed down his face. His breath caught in his chest, coming in hitching gasps, and he continuously wiped snot from his upper lip. Jayson watched in silence, strangely numbed, as he followed in Corim’s wake. He found Paul, the tavern keeper, and his wife Amy, both with weapons in hand, their bodies charred by the flames as the tavern burned down around them. The stableboy, Ander, had been torn to pieces in the back, his body left close enough to the fire it had been roasted. Huddled near the church, half-buried beneath the rubble of a collapsed wall, he found the healer Reannon, her body lying protectively across her two children, Tara and Ian. But none of the bodies belonged to Corim’s parents. Or Lianne.
When there were no more bodies to check within the village center, Corim turned to him and said, “Home. They must be at home!”
He tore off down the road.
“No, Corim, wait!” Panic seized Jayson’s chest and he charged after the boy. He heard Gregson curse and shout an order, followed by boots running after him, but he ignored it all. His heart thudded in his chest as he ran, and for the first time he felt the grief he’d shoved down hard before this shuddering up from his gut, hot and choking. His eyes burned with it and he scrubbed at them futilely as he ran. Ahead, he saw Corim dodge down a secondary path, the one that led to his parent’s cottage, heard the crack of a door flung open-
And then a young boy’s hoarse cry shattered the unnatural stillness of the air.
Jayson’s heart wrenched in his chest as he stumbled down the last of the path and caught himself on the casement of the cottage’s door. He leaned there, gasping, and then reeled back from what he saw inside.
The room was covered in blood, the stench of it rolling out of the door in waves. Splashes of it streaked the walls, the table, the stone of the chimney and hearth. Corim knelt in the center of it all, a fallen chair to one side, his mother’s body lying across his knees. He hugged her tight to his chest, sobbing over her, even though she was covered in her own dried blood. Jayson gagged when he saw chunks of her flesh had been ripped free, her left foot entirely missing, most of her fingers gone, gnawed down to nubs of bone.
Behind Corim, in the doorway to the back bedroom, he could see a leg clad in a workboot sitting in a wide pool of blood.
“Corim,” he said, but his voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “Corim, come here. You can’t help them now.”
Corim didn’t respond. From behind, he heard two of the Legionnaires-Curtis and Ricks-pounding up the path, halting beside him. They looked in over his shoulder and Curtis sucked in a breath of horror. Ricks stumbled to one side and vomited into the small herb garden beneath the cottage’s window.
Corim’s wail had died down to a hitching moan. Gathering himself, Jayson stepped into the cottage and to Corim’s side. He reached down to grip Corim’s shoulder, the boy rocking back and forth where he knelt. He didn’t react to Jayson’s touch, so Jayson barked, “Corim!”
The boy flinched and looked up at him, his expression lost. “They’re dead,” he whispered.
“I know.” He squeezed Corim’s shoulder. “We can’t do anything for them now. We need to leave.” And he needed to find Lianne, although he wasn’t certain he wanted to find her now. Grief pressed hard against him, nearly swallowed him.
He sucked in a steadying breath and choked on the stench that permeated the house. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Corim didn’t move, so he reached down and hauled him to his feet, the boy’s mother’s body sliding to the floor. Mercifully, she landed facedown. After seeing what had been done to her hands, Jayson could only imagine what had been done to her face.
As soon as he’d regained his feet, Corim latched onto Jayson, arms encircling his chest and drawing him in close. Curtis appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, caught his gaze and shook his head, although Jayson had already known Corim’s father was dead as well.
He half-carried, half-led Corim outside into the fading sunlight.
“We should head back to the village center,” Curtis said. Ricks had recovered, stepping up to them from one side as he wiped his mouth with one hand. He still shook and his face was pale.
“No,” Jayson said. “Not yet. I need to find Lianne.”
Ricks nodded and Jayson realized that the Legionnaire had been offering him a way out. But he couldn’t leave without knowing for certain.
Pushing Corim away gently but forcefully, he handed the youth off to Curtis and then headed down the path to the road.
His own cottage and lands were not far. He walked to them without speaking, the others trailing behind. He saw the cottage through the last of the trees, then passed through the small gate and garden to the front door. There he hesitated, thinking of the blood and stench in Corim’s home.
But he had to know.
He opened the door.
An invisible hand closed around his throat, choked off his breath, his voice. All of the strength drained from his legs and he slid down into a crouch. He held one hand out before him, as if he could ward off what he saw within, as if he could block it out.
Lianne sat slumped over the small table near the hearth, her head on its side, her blank hazel eyes staring toward the door, as if she’d been watching for him. One hand lay on the table beside her head in a pool of spilled stew, the bowl upside down by her fingertips. The other lay in her lap. The rancid smell of broth and potatoes and onion filled the room, the stew pot still hanging over the long-dead fire.
Corim’s hand fell onto his shoulder and Jayson dragged in a wheezing breath, his throat too tight and raw. He brought his hand down, then heaved himself upright and staggered to the table, knocking against it hard enough it scraped across the wooden floor, the bowls and utensils jouncing. Lianne’s hand slid through the congealed stew, the weight of her arm dragging it off the table. It swung, gelled chunks dropping from the fingers.
A noise he’d never heard himself make escaped him and he reached forward to brush Lianne’s hair, to touch her cheek. Her skin felt unnaturally cold and soft, as pale and lifeless as that of the dwarren’s body in the village center. Unlike Corim’s parents, there wasn’t a mark on her. No blood had been splattered through the house. It was as if she’d died while sitting down to eat.
He knelt down beside her, rested his head against her side and reached his arm around her shoulder. The constriction in his throat shifted down to his chest, so tight it felt as if he’d torn something deep inside his lungs, but he held it in, swallowed it down, his eyes squeezed shut with the effort. His body hitched as he sucked in a deep breath, trying to control himself-
“Lianne,” he murmured.
“She’s-” Corim began, but cut himself off.
Dead, Jayson finished for him. Lianne’s dead.
The constriction that bound his chest tightened, but he found himself getting up, releasing her as he rocked back and stood.
“Let’s go,” he said. His voice was unnaturally hard. “There’s nothing we can do here anymore.”