That was not ash in the air. It was snow.

It fell straight down, as delicate as tossed feathers, and as deceptively gentle, but thicker by the moment. Already, bits of wet white clung to the tops of boulders, the sheets of scree. The globes cast a ghostly illumination through the gloom. Past the gaps in Estie’s shelter, she watched the vista slowly fade behind veils of flakes.

Crayn wanted her to withdraw. In the keep, he could bolt the door against the cold and wet. Every part of her was shivering, but she resisted. The priests were ready to attack.

She expected them to surge across the road and begin flinging their globes, using the snow to cover them while they destroyed Waysel and her cannon. But they did not move.

Instead, they released the horde.

As if they were howling, the fanged strangers rushed onto the road, racing to feed. Rabid with hunger, they attacked the dead and the dying, beasts and cavalrymen. Tearing bodies apart, they devoured flesh and muscle, tendons and bones, faces, whole skulls, entrails. But they were not satisfied by the feast in front of them. They were too many. To ease their starvation, they spread out in both directions, north and south. Even men and mounts unscathed by rifle-fire were torn down and eaten. Only their armor spared the dead Knights from being consumed.

Stunned by horror, Estie surrendered to Crayn’s urging. Her last sight as he drew her away was of a pack of small men crossing the road. They were no more than half the size of the fanged strangers. Like the horde, they carried no weapons. But they climbed the slopes with the speed of nightmares.

In moments, they outran the lights and disappeared in the snow. Still, they lingered in her mind like images of ruin.

The Great God’s cavalry was gone. Nevertheless he was winning.

THIRTY

TO MAKE AMENDS

From his hiding place above the road, General Klamath watched the horde feed.

The sight made him sick. It also infuriated him. The Great God’s casual willingness to sacrifice his own men revealed a depth of cruelty that the son of Klimith could not have imagined. The cavalrymen had been discarded like rubbish.

During the old wars, the Amikan monarchs had put their own wounded to death. That had shocked Klamath then. This was worse.

What purpose had the cavalry served? Klamath had only one explanation: to clear the way. The Repository’s Magisters could have shattered these foothills, wrecked the lower plateau and the road, blocked every approach with rubble. Then Rile’s forces could not have reached their target without an arduous and vulnerable scramble. But instead, the cavalry had forced the keep’s defenders to concentrate on a different threat. Now Rile could ascend with ease. Only Klamath’s soldiers and Waysel’s cannon stood in his path.