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Something cold landed on Andry’s cheek as he recovered, wiping his eyes. He looked up through slitted lashes, searching the cold blue above. There were no clouds over them, only the smoke blowing from the east.
But the snow began, one flake after another, spiraling on a wind no one could see.
29
Worn to Bones, Worn to Blood
Domacridhan
The snow fell over the war band, flakes drifting on the smoky air. It was never enough to white out the horizon, though Dom wished it would. He saw Gidastern first, a burning bruise to the east, throwing off clouds of black smoke underlit by flame. He half expected the dragon to be there too, already circling. But there was nothing but smoke above Gidastern.
Like any Gallish city, it had high walls and towers, the battlements of a keep rising at its center. Now the defenses were useless against an enemy already inside. Indeed, the walls served as another weapon, hemming in the city. Everything within was fuel for the raging fire, filling the air with the smell of charred wood and ash. The smoke drifted, trailing down the coast like black ink over the Watchful Sea.
Again Dom wanted to dig in his heels and gallop the last few miles. Hammer down the gates. Hunt Taristan through the city.Itis his life or mine. One will end today,he promised himself. It was all he could do to keep on at their steady, maddening pace.
But what if Taristan is already gone?
Dom didn’t know what he feared more. Taristan’s absence, or his sword.
He eyed the city again, staring down the old Cor road across the coastal plain. It headed straight for the gates of Gidastern, bisecting the farmland ringing the walls. To Dom’s dismay, the road was empty of travelers. After meeting the girls in the woods, he expected more refugees, but no one headed toward the city or away. There was only snow and smoke, spiraling in a hellish swirl of gray. Even the iron sea faded into nothing, obscured by smoky clouds only a few hundred feet off the shore. It felt like riding into the arms of a ghost.
Sorasa kept pace at his side, her furred hood lowered. She squinted into the distance, black brows drawn together, her full lips set in a grim line. Her mortal eyes couldn’t see as far, but the clouds of smoke were enough to darken her countenance.
“How many live in Gidastern?” Dom asked out of the corner of his mouth. The smell of smoke was sharp in his nose, and his heart clenched.
She glanced at him, impassive. “Thousands.”
An arrow of pain lanced through Dom’s mind and he winced, loosing a low growl. “The Queen of Galland cares little for her own people.”
“Have you never met a ruler before?” Sorasa scoffed. “No, she only cares for power. They always do.”
Dom swallowed a retort, thinking of his own monarch backhome in Iona. Isibel’s sending was still fresh in his mind, her white figure trailing him like a shadow.Come home.He’d called her a coward once, and he meant it still.
The walls grew larger ahead of them, made of mortar and stone, three times a man’s height at least. They caged the fire and the city, their gates firmly shut. Dom tried not to imagine who or what barred the gates out of a city burning.
Oscovko’s men numbered two hundred, many of them injured. Dom despaired of their ability to mount an assault on anything, let alone a city on fire.
He leaned toward Sorasa, lowering his voice. “Did they teach you siegecraft in your guild?”
“Somehow I missed that lesson. I can slip a gate or cross a wall, but not with an army holding my skirts,” she grumbled, eyeing the soldiers around them. She faltered on Corayne and the Companions, battered but not broken. “Perhaps Oscovko has some ideas.”
Dom frowned. “He’ll probably just slow the march even more.”
“His band is wounded, fresh from a battle not his own. And still they ride on,” she shot back hotly. “He deserves some credit, at least.”
The immortal felt a low current of angry heat ripple through him. “It isn’t like you to give credit at all.”
She waved him off, her inked fingers cracked raw by the cold. “I’m many things, but mostly a realist.”
“Well, I think reality is catching up with the prince,” Dom said. He tipped his chin and gestured to the front of the column where Oscovko rode, Sigil close to his flank.
Like Sorasa, the mortals couldn’t see much of the city. Evenso, the Prince of Trec lost a little more color with every step of the march. His face seemed drained of blood, his easy smile forgotten. He looked back and forth, turning in the saddle to survey his war band and the city. His lips pursed, turning white.
Sorasa looked just as stricken.
“How bad is it?” she whispered, still staring at the horizon. “Tell me truly, Domacridhan.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek as he studied the city beyond. The fire reflected against the underbelly of the smoke, turning black to glowing red. Sparks danced along rooftops and within the clouds, flaring and jumping. The watchtowers and battlements of the keep were empty, unmanned by any garrison. Flames licked up against the stone, red flowers in bloom.
