Ruins of Chaos (Legacy of the Nine Realms #3) - Amelia Hutchins Page 0,1

curdled. They’d seen their death coming. Their mouths were open, as were the others outside the tent. The witch’s corpse slid to the side, and Brander withdrew his blade as rats emerged from the warrior’s chest. Chew marks covered the witch’s stomach as if the rodents had gnawed on her to escape his stomach. Brander swore, covering his mouth as their bodies released gasses, and the witch’s mouth opened further, dispelling more rats from her corpse.

“This is so fucking wrong. They’re rotten from the inside out.” Brander continued to gag on the rancid taste of death filling the tent.

I moved outside to check the other shelters, finding each pair of eyes within, staring at the entrance. They’d looked upon whoever had delivered death to the inhabitants surrounding and within the stronghold. Standing in the middle of the camp, I swallowed down the urge to scream in frustration.

“Beasts didn’t kill here. This is the work of dark witches, and they didn’t fear someone overpowering them.” I eyed the keep and pointed at the battlement wall. “I’m going up to get a better look at the carnage from above.”

I moved through the dead, passing over the corpses while ignoring the carrion birds that continued to feast on the deceased. Green water filled the moat, and bloated bodies were half in and out of the water as if they’d drank from the cesspool upon death.

Unlucky bastards.

The gatehouse was open, which wasn’t surprising with the full force of an army camped out front. The portcullis was raised, and bodies hung from the wrought-iron gates on each side of the opening. I looked to the ceiling and found the men guarding the entrance slumped in death, hanging from the murder holes from which they should have laid siege, but there was no evidence of battle. Beyond the gates, more bodies covered the inner courtyard and the grounds leading to the castle.

Within the keep was a grotesque display of well-orchestrated deaths. Men and women sat before a rotted meal, their severed heads placed before them. Food shoved in their mouths, which were wide open, frozen in horrified screams as if the stiffness of death had set in immediately.

The display was a warning meant for me. It also told me that the witches weren’t alone since they didn’t typically remove their victim’s heads. The evil bitches didn’t like to get their hands dirty, choosing to use their magic instead.

I forewent seeing it again and moved up the stairs of the battlement wall, cresting it to peer out over miles and miles of the camp, filled with thousands of dead warriors and witches, all of whom had seemingly died from sheer terror or fright.

“Fucking hell, that’s a sight to behold,” Brander whispered, his hands resting on the wall. “They didn’t even spare the horses.” My attention slid to the stables, noting the dead horses that littered the ground as if trying to flee when struck down. “That’s fucked up.”

“I’ve never had a problem determining the cause of death before. There’s always been a way to sense if magic was used, but I can’t find any residue. The fear that the victims felt was real. Was it something conjured or someone they had seen moving through the camp, holding them locked in fear unto death?”

“They look fucking terrified with their mouths wide open and eyes larger than the snow owls that should be feasting on the rodents,” Brander stated. “Look at the trees, Knox.”

My eyes swung to the trees, noting the large birds of prey perched on their branches. They didn’t move even though easy meals ran about, eating the dead. My blood chilled, continuing to watch them stalk their prey but never making a move to strike.

Something dropped inside the tower beside us, and we both turned, eyeing it suspiciously. I nodded to Brander, creeping toward the darkened building, bathed in shadows. Brander went around the battlement, his speed effortless as he appeared on the other side, trapping whatever had fallen. I drew my swords, slowly holding Brander’s stare before we slid into the small, protected tower that sat on the corner of the castle wall.

“Don’t kill me!” a lad screamed.

“Who are you?” I demanded icily.

“I’m Kreyton, Lady Katherine and Lord Demetrius’s son! I am the heir to this keep,” he whimpered.

I exhaled slowly, pushing my blades back in their scabbards while Brander kept his ready to strike if the need arose. The boy was sickly looking, his face a mass of thin black lines that pulsed with