Page 89 of The Cruel Dawn
There aren’t many soldiers left in Gileon Wake’s regiment. Four sit at the entrance to the barracks, and not one of them glows with life—not blue, not amber. Does Wake know that his men are dead—and considering the maggots in their eyes and mouths, that they have been dead for a while?
The camp smells of urine and smoke. The ground is thick mud, littered with scraps of armor, broken weapons, and rotting food. Flies swarm everywhere.
Some soldiers sleep in mold-covered tents that sag under the weight of damp rot. The tents themselves are mismatched, patched together. Other soldiers sleep out in the open, sprawled on tattered bedrolls or directly on the cold ground, barely hanging on to life.
Campfires burn at every thirteenth tent. Men huddle in silence around these fires, their faces gaunt and their eyes hollow. The amber glow that marks them flickers like dying candlelight. There’s no camaraderie, no drunken songs or shared laughter, only coughing and curses.
One of three bloodhounds lifts her head as we pass.
Daisy! My old friend.
She sniffs the breeze. She stands, and her tail wags hard and fast at my familiar scent.
“Sweet girl,” I say, “Daisy, my lovely one!” I wave my hand over the other hounds’ noses, and they dip their big heads in recognition. I kiss Daisy’s forehead and offer her and her brothers leftover pork cooked by Separi and boar jerky cured by Philia.
“Can your noses even work in these conditions?” I ask her.
“There’s nothing alive to search for,”she replies sadly.
“We’ll be back,” I assure her and the boys.
We move on, sneaking past the armaments, the mess tent, and a small tarp covering cords of firewood.
Command tents cluster near the center of the camp.
“Gileon will be in there.” Jadon points to the fanciest of the tents, the one made of heavy, green wool. A banner hangs limply from a crooked pole, that twin leopard emblem faded and stained with mud. A gold-threaded colure has been embroidered into the tent flaps. A plume of smoke rises from a hole in the center of the tent. Two imposing knights guard the entrance.
Jadon eases out a breath. “Hope this goes without bloodshed. I hope he understands that neither of you cares if itdoesn’t.”
Because we’re leaving with that ring—his finger still in it or not.
My gaze stays on Gileon’s tent. “It’s made of wool.”
“Yeah,” Jadon says. “And?”
I shiver. “I’m allergic to wool.”
Jadon laughs. “Kai, be serious.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t even crack a smile. “You don’t remember my rashes that day I sheared farmer Gery’s sheep back in Maford? It was part of my punishment for causing a public disturbance.” I shiver again, remembering the hives on my skin.
Jadon tries to swallow his embarrassment. Too late. “Just…don’t touch it.”
I roll my eyes.Thatwould be a stupid legacy.She could wield fire and wind in her hands. She could hear others’ thoughts. Pity she met her death after an encounter with soggy wool.
We walk toward the tent, hands ready on our swords.
Soldiers watch us approach, but none move to stand.
Philia whispers, “Why aren’t they fighting us?”
“They’re contending with a greater threat now,” Elyn says.
Some soldiers’ eyes widen once they see me. They whisper, “Lady,” believers again now that death is in the air.
“If everyone dies, what will happen to…?” Philia looks back over her shoulder at Daisy and her brothers.
“Maybe,” I say, “you and Olivia can be their mommas. Give them a good home.”
