those poor souls who’d been inflected by the blight. But notably absent were screams. As though those she cut down felt no pain at all. Because they aren’t alive, Lydia thought. Merely hosts for the blight to control.
“For now, we hold our position. Help may well be on its way.” Malahi stepped away from the xenthier. “But if one of the corrupted comes, we use the xenthier. All of us.”
Hacken huffed out an aggrieved breath. “It might follow. Better for some of your soldiers to try to hold it off. That will give the rest of us a chance to run.”
Malahi’s eyes flared with disgust. “No. We live together or we die together. That’s an order.”
“Do not presume to give me orders, girl,” he snarled. “Without me, you’re nothing.”
All the guardswomen shifted angrily, but Malahi waved a calming hand at them. “Oh, I don’t presume to order you to do anything, High Lord Calorian. By all means, if you wish to stand here, sword in hand, giving us all a fighting chance of survival, I will ensure you are honored for your heroism.”
Hacken’s gaze was vitriolic, but Malahi only frowned, assessing the group. “You,” she said, pointing at Lydia. “Go inform Bercola of our plan, then stay there. If one of the corrupted comes, you’ll be the only warning we have.”
Not a random choice. Lydia met Malahi’s cool amber gaze, then nodded.
“She shouldn’t go alone,” Gwen protested. “Just in case.”
“It only takes one person to shout a warning.”
Never mind that the person doing the shouting wasn’t likely to make it back to the xenthier before the corrupted caught up to her. To refuse to go and necessitate someone else doing it would be cowardice, and if it weren’t for the fact that so many other lives depended on her, Lydia wouldn’t have hesitated. But Teriana needed her. Her father needed her. The Maarin needed her.
Her mark made her stronger and faster, and it allowed her to endure and survive what others couldn’t. Of anyone standing in this room, she was the one most likely to make it back to the xenthier alive. “I’ll go.”
Before her courage could abandon her entirely, Lydia started up the tunnel, moving by feel as the light behind her faded. It was only when she was in the darkness entirely that Lydia realized the faint sounds of Bercola fighting weren’t growing louder, they’d vanished entirely.
What if Bercola had been overwhelmed?
What if the horde of poisoned civilians was silently coming in her direction?
What if their grey hands were reaching toward her?
Every step was a force of will, Lydia peering into the blackness even as she listened for the sound of breathing. For the shuffle of bare feet. Then ahead, she made out the flickering glow of a torch. And faintly, almost so imperceptible that she wasn’t certain what she was hearing, came the sound of weeping.
Sword pointed ahead of her, Lydia crept down the tunnel. As she rounded the last bend, the stink of blood and blight hit her in the face, her eyes landing on Bercola’s broad shadow, and beyond …
The small chamber was painted with gore, bodies and body parts layered upon the floor. Not soldiers, but Mudamorian refugees. Women and children, all barefoot and clad in ragged clothing, their bodies emaciated from hunger.
Lydia gagged, turning to press her forehead against the cool wall until she regained control. When she turned, Bercola was scrubbing tears from her cheeks.
“They wouldn’t stop coming.” The giantess’s voice was hoarse, pleading. “I tried just knocking them back. Knocking them down. But they kept coming.”
It was then Lydia saw the rips in Bercola’s clothing. The stains of blood. The scratches and bite marks on her enormous hands.
“I tried.” Bercola’s shoulders bowed, the tip of her sword resting against the ground. “They aren’t the enemy. They are … were, our people.”
This had broken her. Not physically, for Lydia knew the giantess’s wounds weren’t mortal. But her mind would never be the same. There was no coming back from this.
Which was exactly what the Corrupter wanted.
Chaos. Anger. Fear. That was what the god desired. What fueled his power. He’d trapped all these thousands of people in the city they’d once called home. Taught them to fear the dark. Their empty stomachs. And now one another.
“They weren’t themselves.” She offered the words as sympathy, knowing they’d make little difference. “It was the blight within them, and it knows only one master.”
The slow clap of hands made Lydia jump and Bercola whirl around, blade