Page 40 of On Brutal Thrones

Another horrible pull.

By the time we’re all several feet into the field, the blood reaches halfway up my calves. The men sink farther, almost to their knees, probably because they’re heavier, but I can’t make myself look closely enough to decide. The sight of the thick red liquid climbing my boots is already more than I can handle.

“Still think it’s blood?” I ask weakly.

Fenric gags.

“Sorry.”

“Please stop saying that word.”

“Blood?”

He glares at me over the fabric covering his nose and, despite myself, a tiny laugh escapes me. Then the ground pulses beneath us.

I freeze. This close, I don’t simply see it. I feel it. A heavy thump moves beneath my boots, strong enough to travel up my legs. The red liquid around my calves rises slightly, then falls as the pressure releases.

My grip tightens painfully around both men’s hands.

“Did you feel that?”

Fenric’s face has gone pale. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Another pulse. Thump. This time, I feel the pale line beneath my boot contract, and I jerk my foot away.

“Gods.”

Up close, I can finally see what those lines are doing. They aren’t simply dividing the field into sections. They swell and constrict beneath the surface. Every contraction pushes thinner red liquid upward around them before drawing it back down again when they relax.

“It really is like a heartbeat,” I whisper.

Nobody responds.

I wish I hadn’t said it aloud.

We continue.

Walking through the blood is exhausting. Every step requires me to wrench one foot free before forcing it forward again, and the substance seems determined to keep my boots. My thighs are already aching from the climb, but within minutes they’re burning.

The sun makes everything worse.

There isn’t a cloud anywhere above us now. Light blazes across the open field, reflecting off every wet surface and turning the entire world red. Heat presses against my shoulders and scalp, and sweat trickles from my forehead, stinging my eyes.

Worse, the sun warms the blood.

The smell changes. It becomes heavier. Sweeter. Rotten. Like meat left beneath the summer sun until it begins to swell.

I gag and swallow hard. “How much farther?”

“We just started,” Thorian says.

“I regret asking.”

Fenric makes a miserable sound beside me.

Ahead, Talon stops.

“Thorian?”