City of Towers_ The Dreaming Dark - Keith Baker [3]
She threw off her cloak and Hadran cried out in horror.
Moments later, the messenger wiped her bloody hands on Hadran’s shirt. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling the hood down over her head. She took one last look at the ruin that had once been a dragonmarked lord.
“I’ll give your love to Lei, Lord Hadran,” she purred. “I have great things planned for her. Great things.”
No one saw her leave.
Daine woke in the mud. Cold rain fell from the gray sky, and his woolen blanket was soaked and filthy. At least it’s just water, he thought. Compared to what they’d been in over the last six months, rain was a welcome change of pace.
The memories came unbidden to his mind, images far worse than any nightmare. For centuries Cyre had been a jewel in the crown of Galifar, a fertile land renowned for its crafts and culture. Now Cyre was a barren wasteland filled with corpses. As he traveled south, Daine heard the peasants whispering about the horrors to be found in this so-called Mournland. According to the tales, blood fell from the sky instead of rain, and the spirits of the dead howled with the wind.
The truth was far worse.
The battle at Keldan Ridge happened the night before the Mourning. The final hours of the battle were a blur. None of the survivors could remember how they escaped from the warforged marauders, and no one could actually recall when the disaster took place. How did it happen? What force could have devastated an entire country yet leave a few soldiers completely unharmed, a mere twenty feet from the border? Perhaps this amnesia was a side effect of the force that destroyed the realm, or perhaps the event was simply more than the human mind could bear.
On that terrible morning, Daine had led the remnants of his troop back into Cyre, passing through the dead-gray mists to see what lay beyond. How could they have known how vast the devastation would be? Who would believe that an entire country could be destroyed in so brief a time? For months they had pressed deeper and deeper into the wastes. All that they found was horror and death. As the weeks went by Daine’s soldiers fell one by one to the terrors of the twisted land, and only five survived the long trek back to the border—Daine, Pierce, Jani Onyll, the healer Jode, and Lei d’Cannith. But that was far from the end of their troubles. Every day brought a new clash with the soldiers of Thrane, and Jani fell victim to a last gift of Cyre—a lingering infection Jode’s touch could not cure.
Finally they moved south into Breland. After a few skirmishes, the active aggression of the Brelish soldiers faded into muted disgust. The destruction of Cyre had thrown the entire world into a state of shock, and the common folk were weary of war. The chroniclers said that King Boranel of Breland had offered sanctuary to the refugees of Cyre. Others claimed that princes and ambassadors were hammering out the terms of peace far to the north, laying the foundation of a new world that would take the place of the ancient kingdom of Galifar. The frontier garrisons held the borders against any signs of treachery, and Daine’s troop had received a bloody welcome in Thrane. But further south the people had begun to lay down their swords and return to their plows. After years of battle, it seemed that the conscripts were returning home for good.
It had been many years since Daine had a place to call home. Any past he might have returned to was buried in the ashes of Cyre. Pierce had been built to fight in a war that was all but over. Jode had never spoken of his family. Lei was the only one of the survivors whose future was clear, and so the others traveled with her on the road to Sharn—not because the city had any particular promise for them, but they had no place else to go.
Daine rose and shook the water out his blanket. Pierce was struggling to keep the fire alive, and Lei was starting to break camp, gathering the tarps and blankets. Daine joined her.
“Another fine day, hmm?” he said,