Chapter 6: Far From Home

The smoke finally settled, leaving behind only the shattered arch of the elven portal and three dead clerics, their robes still smouldering.

Carver looked at the naked back of his second-in-command Faedal. A distinct twinge of anger was tugging at his nerves.

“Faedal.”

“Yes?”

“Explain to me what just happened.”

“Didn’t you see it yourself?”

Carver balled his fists. “Of course I saw it myself. Just help me comprehend how a simple summoning ritual could go to hell in just an instant.” Carver turned to the large pile of corpses behind the magic circle and invoked one of the spells his Mistress has granted him. One of the mutilated corpses, a slender elven girl, her throat cut from ear to ear, jerked into a semblance of life. He guided the animated body to one of the blood-filled basins and had it dig through it until its fingers found it. Touching the Disjunction stone broke the spell but Carver could pull the lifeless arm from the basin. In the limp palm, he could see the dull, magic-eating pebble.

“That little runt came in here and tossed something into the unholy basins,” Faedal said.

“Yes. Disjunction stones. Clever little bastard. All the hard work preparing the basins, anointing them with fresh blood – all for naught. We would have to redo everything again.”

“That might pose a problem. We’re running out of sacrifices,” Faedal said, nodding towards the room’s back exit.

“No matter. We managed to raise one ancient elven mage. As long as the other teams were successful, this setback means little. It makes me wonder though.”

“What are you thinking about? And ... since this ritual is over ... can I have the remaining sacrifices?”

Carver made a sour face. He didn’t particularly enjoy Faedal’s sadistic antics but he had no choice but partake. It was the price he had to pay for the gifts Desire had lavished him with. Your ambitions may be pure in spirit but without suffering you shall not win. Food and drink had little value anymore but the suffering inflicted on the innocent – that was pure manna. And there were few people more able to inflict horrendous suffering than Faedal. Even though Carver would prefer a more sane, rational lieutenant, Faedal was ruthlessly efficient and his debauchery allowed Carver to keep his own hands clean.

“In time, friend. I’m thinking about Thurguz, of course. This has his handwriting all over it. Even if the old greenskin hasn’t shown himself this time, I’m sure only he has the resources to discover our ritual in the first place.” He eyed Faedal suspiciously. “Unless we have a leak somewhere.”

“I shall make sure no such thing happens,” Faedal snarled. “It’s about time the troops learned the meaning of fear again.” He left for the back room.

“All right then,” Carver instructed the two remaining clerics. “You make sure there will be no traces of us ever being here. Dispose of the basins, the corpses and clean up this mess as best you can. Then, bring our new friend here,” he gestured at the undead elven mage, dressed in dark robes and impassively watching the proceedings, “to the fortress for indoctrination. Understood?”

“As you command,” one of the clerics whispered, bowing stiffly.

Carver clapped the cleric’s shoulder encouragingly and followed Faedal. As soon as he entered the room where the sacrifices were held, the screaming began.

“Shouldn’t we bring Elara in here?” Rhys asked, looking over Idunn’s shoulder. “This looks serious.”

“I’m glad you noticed,” Idunn grumbled, nudging him with her elbow. “Without Elara’s intervention, Celeste would already be dead. I’m just cleaning up after her.”

“What the hell happened? She looks worse than Hagazz after a whole day of sparring with Borna!”

“Elara said something about a really bad case of Sorcerer’s Burn, in addition to all this.” Idunn lifted the cloth covering Celeste’s lower body. Rhys took a hurried step backwards. There was a horrifying amount of red on the fabric.

“I’ll fetch a healing potion or something,” Rhys muttered and turned to leave.

“I have everything she could ever need. But trying to get an unconscious person to drink something is a little difficult,” Idunn snarled. “All you can do now is wait until I have her stapled back together.”

“Let me know, please,” Rhys pleaded.

“Of course. Now shoo. I need to concentrate.”

Rhys left the room, his heart pounding in his throat. What happened to Celeste? Has something happened to the village?

There was no way he could simply sit in his room and wait until Celeste had recovered enough to tell him. He had to know now.

Rhys sprinted up the stairs and hammered against the closed door to Thurguz’ room.

A moment later, the half-orc opened. He looked even more tired than usual. “Now is not a good time, lad.”

“It’s urgent, Master. I’m sorry if I’m barging in on something but I need you to use your far-seeing table for me. Please!”

Thurguz scowled, looking Rhys up and down. Eventually, he sighed. “Come in.”

The half-orc pulled the door open, allowing Rhys to pass. Around the table, he recognized Hagazz, Chassari and Metili. A grim-looking elven male looked up as he entered. The right side of his face was covered with a bronze mask, the eye a glinting red crystal. Disgusting scar tissue meandered out from under the mask and his right hand was covered by a strange gauntlet made from clicking metal scales.

“Excuse the interruption,” Thurguz said to the others. Chassari smiled and waved at Rhys. Hagazz made an encouraging hand gesture behind Thurguz’ back and grinned at Rhys while Metili and the elven stranger eyed him with indifference. “Now, what has you so spooked, Rhys?”

“It’s Celeste. She suddenly showed up in the tower, horribly injured. I’m afraid something might have happened back home. Can you have a look?”

Thurguz turned a pale shade of green. “Celeste wouldn’t leave her post unless something dire has happened.” He reached for the arms and levers above the table and manipulated them. Rhys knew it took only a few moments for the magic to work and an image to appear but the seconds ticked by like hours. Finally, the table lit up, showing the village.

“This looks ... bad,” Metili whispered.

Rhys grasped the rim of the table to keep from collapsing. The image, seen from a bird’s eye view, showed a blackened wasteland. There were small nests of flames where buildings still burned. Thick clouds of smoke allowed only for small glimpses but they were much more unnerving than seeing the whole desolation at once. Rhys saw collapsed roofs, corpses lying in their own blood and that horrible scorched earth everywhere.

“You’re sure you got the right village?” Hagazz asked.

“He did,” Rhys croaked, pointing out the large structure of the inn. The facade had caved in as if a giant had smashed his fist into it. “I- ... I have to...”

“You will do nothing, lad,” Thurguz growled. “You will stay here, in safety, while I will send someone to investigate.”

“You know how this will end,” the elven stranger said. His voice was soft and melodious, a marked contrast to his grim appearance. “The boy goes anyway and you will furiously argue. Let him go and give him a decent escort instead.”

“I can’t believe you’d undermine my authority like this, Moril,” Thurguz groaned. “Fine. If you have to go that badly, at least take Hilgrun with you. And for Mercy’s sake, be careful.”

“Thank you. You won’t regret it,” Rhys said, hugging Thurguz.

The old half-orc muttered something indistinct and gently pushed Rhys off him. “Just come back in one piece.” He guided the young sorcerer to the door. “Now let us resume our strategy talk please.” The door closed behind him.

Halfway down the stairs Rhys stopped. And how am I supposed to get back home? I can’t teleport! He looked back up towards Thurguz’ room. Probably not a good idea. But wait. Maybe one of the others... ? He weighed his options. Lishaka was the only obvious choice. As a sorcerer herself, she might be able to cast the necessary Teleport spell. Without it, it would take weeks or months to cross half the Western Continent.

Rhys dashed back down to the students’ quarters, skidding to a halt in front of Lishaka’s door. He knocked.

“Come in!” the goblin cawed happily. Rhys pushed the door open. Lishaka sat cross-legged on the bed, three books open around her and a fourth on her lap. A dozen unfamiliar items - rings, belts, bracers and even a few wands - were scattered atop the duvet. “Oh, hello Rhys!”

She slithered off the bed without disturbing a single item and hugged herself against him, her small hands eagerly kneading his butt. “You won’t believe how fantastic the battle in the cemetery was! I blew up so many skeletons and bad guys and...” Her voice trailed off when she realized he hadn’t moved. “Did something happen? How was your mission?” She looked up, her red eyes full of worry.

“I’m fine. And we managed to disrupt Carver’s ritual.” Rhys took a deep breath. “But something dreadful happened to my home village.” He went to his knees in front of Lishaka and grasped her hands, looking deep into her eyes. “I need to go there, right now. Please tell me you know how to teleport.”

A wide grin spread over Lishaka’s lips. “You’re one lucky bastard, Rhyssie. Just before the mission, Idunn taught me how to teleport. In case something went wrong and we needed to flee.” She hugged Rhys close. “When do we go?”

“Not yet. We should bring Hilgrun along.”

“Oh. And I thought it would only be the two of us,” Lishaka complained. “No problem. You get the barbarian princess and I’ll pack some things, just in case. Entrance Hall?”

“Yes. And thank you.” Rhys leaned in and breathed a kiss onto Lishaka’s lips, much to the goblin’s surprise. He rose and hurried on, looking for Hilgrun. He eventually found her on the ground floor, in a small smithy tucked away between the kitchen and the laundry. Wearing only a leather apron over her loincloth, Hilgrun was working on her armor, hammering dents out of her breastplate.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” Rhys called the moment she set her hammer down.

Hilgrun looked up. “Fancy seeing you here. Looking for me?”

“Yes. I need to ask a favor.”

“Out with it then,” she said, planting her gloved hands on her wide hips. “Unless you want to lay me.” She flashed him a fierce grin. “I’m busy, as you might see.”

“No, not that. At least not now.” Rhys cleared his throat. “I need your blade. And you to swing it.”

“Oh? Another mission already?”

“It’s more a personal matter. My village got attacked and I want to have a look. Maybe someone survived.” Please, let Mirrin be okay. Fighting to keep his voice steady, he added: “I want you with me, as my protector.”

“Who else will be going, and when?” She held up her breastplate. The fighting in Lordehome’s cemetary must have been much worse than anything Rhys had encountered, there were holes and dents and severed straps.

“As soon as possible, and Lishaka. She will be teleporting us.”

“I’m still not her biggest friend but I have to hand it to the green devil. She can fight.” Hilgrun smiled grimly, placing the damaged armor piece onto a shelf. “I’ll get my old armor and meet you back in the Entrance Hall. Don’t let me wait too long. And get a healing potion or three from Galdor. Let’s not take any chances.”

“I’m with you on that one,” Rhys said. Hilgrun pulled off the apron and tossed her shirt over one shoulder. Her body showed new scars and freshly healed wounds. “And you are sure you are in fighting shape?” He reached out and caressed along one especially nasty cut on her flank. Hilgrun stopped dead in her tracks, locking eyes with Rhys. He stepped back hastily, raising his hands.

“Don’t you question my fighting prowess,” Hilgrun snarled. “When I offer my blade, you can rest assured that I’m able to swing it.” She stomped past him. “Your hand was rather nice on my skin. Too bad we can’t take that any further unless you’ve beaten me.”

Rhys groaned. “You’ll never let that slide.”

“No. See you in a bit.” Taking two steps at a time, Hilgrun dashed up the stairs. Rhys followed, albeit a lot slower. He stopped at Galdor’s door and knocked.

“Come in!” the dwarf called.

Rhys opened the door. Bathed in the golden glow from the fireplace, Galdor and Zentam lounged in the comfortable armchairs. For the first time since he’d met him, Zentam wore simple clothes and his gigantic backpack was nowhere to be seen. Large cups stood on the table and the dice were out.

“Ah, just the man I was hoping to see,” Galdor called, rising from his seat. “Want to join us for a few rolls?”

“Not today, my friend.” Rhys shook his head. “Can I buy some healing potions off you? Three should be enough.”

Galdor made a face. “Buy? Rhys, you wound me.” He walked over to his alchemy workbench and claimed three metal flasks. “Here. You should have had them back in Storm Harbor to begin with. My fault for being a bit scatterbrained.” He looked at the freshly healed cut on Rhys’ forearm.

“Or rather distracted by what Miss Millie had to offer, hm?” Rhys said, stowing the flasks in one of his belt pockets.

“That too,” Galdor said, grinning.

“I can’t believe ye’re givin’ away three strong draughts just like that,” Zentam rumbled. “Ye sure ye’re a real dwarf? I would have let him pay. Maybe with a discount.”

“And that’s why you have no friends, Firebeard,” Galdor said, chuckling. “May I ask what you’re up to, Rhys?”

“A personal matter. And I want to be prepared for future missions. Don’t let me spoil your fun.”

“Ah, you’re not spoiling anything. Zentam here was about to clean me out anyway,” Galdor complained, sitting back down and grasping the dice.

“Good luck then. And thank you.”

A short detour to his own room later, Rhys arrived in the Entrance Hall, wrapped in a cloak and his battle staff in hand. Lishaka already waited, wearing a flaming red hooded robe with bright yellow stitching. The cowl hid most of her face and triangular ears. She had a broad belt around her hips, hung with pouches, wands and a big butcher’s knife. She cracked her long-fingered hands as Rhys dashed down the last few stairs.

He stopped two steps away from her. “Haven’t seen that on you before,” Rhys remarked.

“Zentam sold it to me in exchange for some of the trinkets the bad guys dropped,” Lishaka said happily. “Once he got past the fact I could talk like a civilized person. You should have seen his face.” Her eyes under the cowl twinkled. “I’ve never seen you so pale. And shaking. Are you all right?”

“No.” Rhys leaned against his staff. Even clutching it with both hands didn’t make the shivering go away. “I’m more afraid than ever before. You should have seen...”

“It won’t be that bad,” Hilgrun said, coming down the stairs. She wore her old, battle-worn breastplate along with shin guards, forearm bracers and an open-faced helm, the same armor set she wore back at the toll booth. The tall barbarian woman carried her great sword in one hand, a thick book in the other. “People are too smart to let themselves be butchered like cattle.”

“What do you have there?” Rhys asked.

“An atlas.”

Rhys arched an eyebrow. “I don’t follow.”

“Oh, I understand!” Lishaka cawed. “I need to know where your village ... is, Rhys.”

He sighed. “It would probably be simpler if I just gave you the name, right?”

The goblin nodded emphatically.

“Tough luck. I’m not even sure if the village has a name. But luckily for you, I know where it is. Sort of.”

Hilgrun handed him the atlas and Rhys flipped through the pages until he found a map he recognized. “Huh. It does have a name. Sort of. This map is from almost a hundred years ago and it says my home village is ‘Thornton Estate’. I didn’t know that. Not even Carver’s herald has called us ‘inhabitants of Thornton Estate.’”

He flipped the atlas so Lishaka could see the map. “Here. This little speck south and east of Lordehome.”

“That’s not much to go by,” Lishaka grumbled. “A few more details would be helpful or we might end up anywhere.”

“I didn’t know teleportation was that complicated. Whenever Thurguz or Idunn do it-”

“They probably know most of where they want to go by heart now,” Hilgrun said. “So, help our pointy-eared friend out, yes?”

“All right, all right.” Rhys drew in a shuddering breath. It was incredibly hard to concentrate, the pit of fear in his stomach seemed to suck all the training, all the poise he had earned over the past month right out of him, leaving behind a shivering bundle of nerves. “A small river runs right through the village. An old stone bridge crosses it near the village green. On the south bank, there is a small forest. And you can see a mountain range in the east, just poking over the horizon.” He shook his head. “Fields all around, dotted with small copses of beech and larch. Enough?”

“No idea. But I think I get the picture. Hold on to me please,” Lishaka ordered, puffing out her sleeves. “And whatever happens, don’t let go.”

Hilgrun scoffed. “It’s your first time.”

“Shh. I’m concentrating!” Lishaka closed her eyes and held out her arms. Rhys placed a hand on her shoulder while Hilgrun went to a knee, closing her large hand around a slender bicep. The goblin began to mutter, her fingers weaving complicated gestures in the air before them.

Rhys realized that his last brush with a Disjunction stone was less than a day ago, when he had spoiled Carver’s ritual by throwing two of the pebbles into his unholy basins. He should be numb and unable to feel the ebb and flow of arcane power but Lishaka drew in so much, even in his numbed state, he could feel the rush of energy envelop them.

Lishaka squealed, a sound somewhere between dire straits and utter bliss, and then there was a violent sensation of movement, akin to a leaf in a hurricane. It was chaotic, nauseating and ended with an abrupt fall from nearly eight feet.

Rhys peeled himself off the ground, brushing wet leaves and clumps of earth off his cloak. It drizzled, the skies overhead hung so low, he could practically touch them. To his horror, he was alone. No Lishaka, no Hilgrun. Just trees and dirt and mud. He turned in place. Maybe they had already gone ahead while he fought his teleportation sickness.

No. I’m well and truly alone. The only good thing, if one could call it such, was the fact he was close to his destination. Despite the rain, the thick pillar of smoke was widely visible, a grim signal to everyone in range to not mess with Carver. It had to be Carver’s doing, there was little doubt. Faedal admitted as much. He was here. He had seen Dara. And whatever else he had done to her.

Deciding to risk venturing forth alone, Rhys made his way to the edge of the forest. He recognized the small pier where he – a lifetime ago – had jumped into the water to get the stench of manure off him. A little later, he had met Dara; his barely awakened magic had made her skirt fly. This side of the river was untouched by the devastation but Rhys could see more and more of it on the other bank. No house around the inn had come away unscathed. In fact, most close by were little more than smoldering ruins, circled overhead by murders of crows. The inn only managed to survive most of the destruction thanks to its stone construction, and even it had suffered greatly.

What vile magics did they use? Rhys asked, his heart beating faster. He nearly dropped his staff from his sweaty grip as he sped over the old, crumbling stone bridge. The stench hit him like a fist to the gut. Smoldering wood wasn’t that bad but the sweet, cloying aroma of death, of spilled blood and decaying intestines hung thickly in the air, despite the steady drizzle. Rhys fought his stomach and barely managed to keep it down. The crows seemed to mock his clumsiness, cawing to each other.

It was a surreal homecoming. The last time he had been here, it had rained as well but grass was everywhere and the houses – although they were simple – were homely, brimming with light and life. Now, walking amidst the destruction, Rhys felt like he had stepped into a nightmare. It was the same place he knew so well and at the same time it wasn’t. Debris had spilled into the street, carts had been smashed against walls by some incredible force, their cargo everywhere, burnt and broken by the same fires still flickering amidst the timbers and under the caved-in thatch roofs.

And then he saw the first corpses. Jenny Billings, her brother and parents – all neatly laid out in front of their ruined home, all staring in perpetually frozen surprise at the sky. And wherever he turned, the same image. Whole families, neatly arrayed, industrially butchered. Choking at the sudden bile in his throat, he knelt down next to Jenny, with her dirty blonde hair and buck teeth. A small spatter of red had bloomed between her breasts, almost washed away by the rain. He tried to lift her shoulder. With a wet, sucking noise, the soaked back of her mud-caked dress parted from the blood-soaked ground. A much larger wound gaped, the edges torn.

“Someone stabbed them from behind,” a soft voice came. Rhys shot up, whirling towards the voice with his staff.

Hilgrun easily blocked the clumsy swipe with her bracer, then caught Rhys as his knees and stomach gave out simultaneously. “The bastards used a barbed sword. Goes in easy. Out, not so much.”

Rhys’ answer was a sad, pathetic gurgle as he and his stomach’s contents parted ways. Hilgrun gently patted his back.

A moment later, he straightened up. Still pale, still shaking, but his eyes were focused.

“Good. Be angry. You have every right.” She balled her fists, her fingers cracking. “No just ruler would butcher his subjects like that. Battles are fought against warriors, not peasants.”

“I don’t understand,” Rhys moaned. “What ... why?”

“Only one way to find out,” Hilgrun said gently. “We need to look around for clues. Over there, for example.” She pointed to the village green, right next to the inn. Two tall structures had been erected. Crosses. Crows perched on the beams, bickering among themselves.

“Have you seen Lishaka?” Rhys asked, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Am ... Am I the cause for all this?”

“Wait before you chastise yourself,” Hilgrun said. She snaked her arm around Rhys’ shoulders, keeping him upright. “Now, one foot before the other.”

“I can walk,” Rhys growled, slapping her hand away. Unsteadily, he made his way up the soggy road until he could see the crosses clearly. Two bodies had been nailed to them, gutted from the crotch to the chin. And both had wooden signs nailed to their faces.

It took Rhys some time until he could identify them. On the left cross, barely recognizable thanks to dozens of deep sword cuts and a missing arm, hung Daffyd. The remnants of his once proud beard gave him away. His sign read “Rabble-Rouser.”

Rhys braced himself as he looked at the other cross. This body was female but no less devastated. Wet strands of copper hair stuck to the corpse’s breasts and the sign nailed to her forehead read “Murderer.”

Rhys tried to force breath into his revolting body. He sunk to his knees, sobbing helplessly. “No. No. Not you. Dara.”

Hilgrun watched him, grasping the hilt of her blade helplessly. There was no one close by to punish for this atrocity. Someone had taken out their ire on the whole village, a thought she found utterly reprehensible. Her people were considered barbarians by most of the Western Continent, that much she knew from her time at the tower, but even at their worst, they settled their disputes between warriors, not civilians. They could simply not afford to butcher whole villages.

Watching all this devastation made her furious, to the point she quietly begged her namesake, Hilgrun the Frost Witch, patron mother of cold and hunger, to bring some enemies to slay. But no faceless warriors came. They wouldn’t. Their butcher’s work was already done.

“Oh, there you...” Lishaka stopped mid-sentence, her eyes going from Hilgrun to Rhys to the crucified corpses. She closed her mouth with a quiet click. When she moved again, to go to Rhys’ side, Hilgrun stopped her with a hand to the shoulder.

“What kind of monster did all this?” the goblin whispered, horrified.

“Humans,” Hilgrun hissed back, renewing her grasp on Lishaka’s shoulder. “Let him be. The fury must burn within him or he will break before the day is over.”

Lishaka looked up at her. “He is in pain, Hilgrun.” Her voice was barely audible over Rhys’ pained moans.

“You can soothe him after.”

“I didn’t know you were so cruel,” Lishaka hissed.

Hilgrun gnashed her teeth. “I’ll let that slide, just this once,” she warned her softly. Louder, she said: “Rhys.”

The young sorcerer looked at her, his face tear- and rain-streaked. He had left muddy handprints on his forehead and cheeks and his eyes reminded her of a young deer she had killed with a spear when she was just twelve, the understanding that the world was a cruel, savage place.

“Maybe there are survivors,” Hilgrun said. “Bemoaning the dead will not help them. When we have scouted the whole village,” she put extra emphasis on that, “we’ll come back here and offer them a proper burial. But now I need you to be strong. If not for your own sake, then maybe for the survivors.”

Slowly, like dragging a millstone behind himself, Rhys came to his knees. “Maybe they are in the shrine,” he said, his voice dull, leaden. Lishaka clawed at Hilgrun’s hand.

“This way.” Dragging his feet through the mud, Rhys stumbled towards a small building a little ways off, on the other side of the village green. Even from across the field, Hilgrun could see the door hanging askew on half a hinge.

Together with Rhys, Lishaka and Hilgrun reached the shrine. Rhys tried to move the solid wooden door but it hung askance in the doorway and wouldn’t budge.

“Let me,” Hilgrun said. Rhys slumped against the side of the shrine, if held upright by his staff or the stone wall, Lishaka couldn’t tell.

Hilgrun gave the door a long, hard look then lashed out with her metal-shod boot. The last hinge broke and the door clamored inwards, crashing to the floor with a thunderous clap.

“They heard that back home,” Lishaka whispered to herself then looked past the broad behind of Hilgrun. The inside of the shrine was at the same time barren and ruined. There had been pews but those not broken had been tossed around like a giant’s matches, with one burying the altar. Remnants of a beautiful icon were scattered across the small room and there was a shocking amount of blood, especially near the door. A thick trail of red led past the altar, to the small door leading below. Pieces of a shredded robe too. Hilgrun stopped. The tall barbarian had stepped on something. She bent low and picked it up. It was a half-molten and blackened piece of gold, barely recognizable as the Wings of Mercy.

“No one’s here,” Rhys muttered behind her. “Where is everybody?”

“Rhys...” Lishaka began.

“Maybe the farms on the outskirts didn’t end up like this,” he began. “Yes. That’s it. Old Man Harrol’s ... or ... or mine.” He turned on his heels and sprinted from the shrine.

“Hilgrun!” Lishaka called, hot on his heels.

“By Desire’s wrinkled asshole,” Hilgrun cursed, bringing up the rear.

They say it is fear which gives men wings. Others think that hope may have a similar power. But all Hilgrun knew was that Rhys was desperate and desperate men did stupid things. Praying to all gods in hearing range, she pleaded that no looters or brigands were lurking in or around the village. Those types always were the first after the crows.

Thankfully, the area around the village was mostly fields, with very few obvious hiding places so approaching enemies could be seen easily enough. Rhys knew this place by heart, easily avoiding the worst potholes and deepest puddles. Hilgrun and Lishaka were not so lucky. Once, the tall barbarian had to drag the cursing goblin from a puddle which almost swallowed her to her hip.

No scavengers ambushed them and eventually, just as the sun was setting, they reached a small farm. The main building was a crude amalgam of field stone and large timbers, roofed with thatch. A small stable, hen house and barn were scattered around a courtyard awash with puddles. Rhys had stopped dead in front of a row of corpses. Five men, three women. He stood over one of the men, a withered, but wiry muscular elder. In death, his face was a mask of incomprehension. The other four men were big and burly, a bit too unkempt for Hilgrun’s tastes and they looked like they had fought until the bitter end. No easy deaths for them, she thought, calmly noting the ghastly sword wounds. To her surprise, they didn’t at all look like Rhys. The only people even remotely looking like him were the females. Even in death, their faces were empty. They didn’t even struggle.