much handling, but one … one was sliced smooth, as though freshly cut.
Half a map.
The thought settled on his mind, but then he brushed it away. There was nothing but ocean, or so said the Maarin. And no ship that had ventured east or west into the Endless Seas had ever returned to contradict them.
Leaving the map spread out on the table, Killian pulled on his coat and pocketed an assortment of weapons before heading out into the cool morning air. He strode through the streets and made his way to the west gate. There was a convoy passing slowly through, the wagons laden with supplies for the Royal Army from whatever ships had arrived at dawn, only that which could not be transported left for purchase at the harbor market. The crowds of civilians on the streets eyed the wagons hungrily, but the fifty armed soldiers flanking them were enough deterrence to hold them back.
Recognizing one of the men, Killian fell into step next to him, the soldier inclining his head. “Lord Calorian.”
“News?”
“Time it takes to run supplies gets shorter with every passing week.” The soldier shook his head. “The Seventh must have spies in our camp, for the Derin army predicts His Majesty’s every strategy, and with every skirmish we lose men by the hundreds.”
“Morale?”
“Bad. The corrupted pick off our scouts and leave their corpses staked out for us to find at dawn. Deimos overhead all night with their cursed racket make it near impossible to sleep, and a man can’t step outside of camp to take a shit for fear of the packs of creatures that roam the dark.”
“Have you ever seen them?”
The soldier shook his head. “Just their eyes. And their leavings.”
Serrick needed to commit to a battle while he still had the numbers to win it, but Killian knew from the messages Malahi received that the King still believed he could whittle down the Derin army’s numbers through skirmishes and hunger, confident that the Royal Army’s healers and tenders would keep it from suffering the same. Yet the enemy remained inexplicably well supplied and it was Rufina who came out ahead in every skirmish.
“Despite what happened at the wall, it would be well for morale if you or High Lady Falorn rode with us.” The man pulled off his helmet to wipe sweat from his brow. “If there was ever a time we needed the strength of the Six, it is now.”
They’d reached the gate, and instead of answering, Killian thumped the soldier on his shoulder. “May the Six guide your steps.”
“And yours, my lord.”
Stopping next to one of guards who’d been at the gate the prior night, Killian said, “Finally rustled up the nerve to open them, did you?”
The old soldiers turned, eyes widening at the sight of him. “My lord,” one of them blurted out. “You’re alive!”
“No thanks to you sorry cowards.” He waved aside their stammered explanations of rules and protocol. “That’s not why I’m here. The woman that was with me, had you seen her before?”
“Not an hour prior to the deimos attack, my lord,” one answered. He was old enough to be Killian’s grandfather, his nose red and bulbous, suggesting a lifetime of drowning himself in drink. “Came through the gate soaking wet and barefoot, wearing something fit for a lady’s bedroom, not walking the countryside.”
“Spend much time in ladies’ bedrooms, soldier?”
The man’s cheeks flushed. “Not in recent years, my lord.”
“Which way did she come from?”
Pointing across the barren fields laced with blight, the man said, “From the trees. Wasn’t another cursed thing moving out there, so we caught sight of her straightaway.”
“Checked her eyes like we do everyone,” another chimed in. “She wasn’t corrupted.”
The idea of these men doing much of anything if they did cross paths with one of the corrupted was laughable, but Killian only nodded at them before starting down the road, the mud from previous rains already drying into ruts. His eyes drifted over the ground, catching sight of a footprint in the drying earth, the size and shape matching the girl’s.
Stepping off the road, he tracked her back toward the trees, noting a spot where she’d stepped in the blight and attempted to wipe the slime off on the dead grass. The fetid stench of rotten eggs was thick on the air. His boots made soft crunches in the dead grass with each step as he approached the copse of pines, many of them diseased, their needles browning. The branches should’ve been full of