Page 210 of Scorched Earth

Bodies lay strewn among the trees, sometimes in large heaps. People of every age, gender, and walk of life, some with clothes and some naked and filthy, no effort put into making them seem human at all. Just shells of the people they’d once been.

“They go on for leagues,” the captain said quietly. “Tens of thousands of them. They rise when there is purpose for them, then return to their camp to be discarded in heaps. Niotin had reported that another horde arrived to join them from Derin but that they are broken and worn down. Their bodies don’t last forever, but the trouble is that Rufina keeps finding ways to poison more of the living.”

“Have you tried attacking them?”

“We used to,” the captain said. “When Lady Falorn was in command. But killing them demoralizes the men, and with the losses we’ve taken, it’s all we can do now to maintain the defense.”

“Is Rufina with them?”

“Niotin was the only one who could get a look. Her camp is leagues away from the front, and it’s where the corrupted and deimos are set up.”

In his mind’s eye, Killian watched the shifter fall from the sky, dead at Rufina’s hands when Rufina should be dead by Killian’s arrows. Not just a friend lost, but one of their greatest assets in this fight.

Killian gave a slow nod, allowing himself to sink further into the numb void that would be required to execute this plan. “Would yougive us a minute?” he said to the captain, watching the men retreat down the tower until he and Baird stood alone.

“What are you thinking?” the giant asked, his big face full of sorrow as he stared across the black lake to the mounds of blighters on the far side.

“Can you call a storm?” Killian asked. “A strong wind that blows north. As fierce as possible.”

“I’m not calling a twister, if that’s your thought.” Baird crossed his thick arms and glowered. “Cursed things have a mind of their own and are as likely to turn on this camp as anything. Plus the path of carnage would be too small to make much of a dent in these numbers.”

“Just a strong and steady north wind, that’s all I need.”

Baird’s colorless eyes narrowed. “It can be done. But Killian, what is your plan?”

“It’s better if you don’t know.” Going to the steps leading down, Killian forced his voice to be steady as he said, “Just get the wind going and don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.”

Waiting until nightfall risked being seen by the deimos and the corrupted riders on patrol. But given the blighters themselves saw no better than the living, Killian decided to wait until the sun was fully set before he made his move.

Baird had been dancing with his drum for well over an hour, and a warm wind from the south blew with such ferocity that the soldiers were losing tents and canvas, the camp in turmoil. Killian paid it all no mind as he set out alone on horseback. He rode the length of the dam, nodding at the patrols he passed when the men saluted, but once he reached the edge of the rubble, he dismounted.

Tying Surly to a post, he hefted his heavy bag. Patrols moved up and down the front lines, dogs in their ranks. He waited for a gap between them, then skirted across the stretch of open ground, feeling the crunch of bone and squish of worse as he ran. Dozens of battles had been fought here, and the land had become a mass grave of Mudamorian dead.

Open ground gave way to dead trees. Their bleached branches rubbed against each other in the wind, the land itself seeming to be moaning in pain as he pressed deeper into Rufina’s territory. Killian slowed his pace, making out the forms of blighters who were alert and on guard, weaving around them and showing care not to step on those who lay slumped on the ground.

Part of him was grateful for the dark because it hid their faces. Turned them into anonymous soldiers rather than countrymen he was sworn to protect.

Reaching a particularly dense patch of dead trees and brush, Killian removed his pack and took out the first bottle of lamp oil. He soaked the deadfall and tree trunks, moving back the way he’d come, upending more and more lamp oil as he went. When his reserves were spent, he knelt next to a splash of oil and took out his tinderbox.

“The Six forgive me,” he whispered, the words stolen away on the wind. Then Killian struck sparks onto the oil.

It caught in an instant, flame spreading swiftly down the trail he’d left and igniting the dead trees and foliage choking the land. The winds fueled the flames, and in what felt like both a moment and a lifetime, an inferno blazed before him.

Killian stood entranced as the flames raced from tree to tree, the roar of the fire rivaling the wind as it climbed higher and higher into the sky. A wall of death sweeping north, and though it would do nothing to the blight itself, the blighters were a different story.

Burning figures began to rise. To run.

Hundreds. Thousands. Tens of gods-damned thousands, all aflame and silently running as the Corrupter tried to move his army of puppets away from the inferno so that they still might serve their purpose to him.

But as the soldiers had said, there was a limit to what the physical form could endure, and the blighters began to fall.

Tears streamed down Killian’s face, half from the heat and smoke but mostly from grief as he watched fire purge the land of his birth. Watched it steal the bodies of his countrymen from the Seventh’s grasp so that they could finally be free.

Killian backed slowly away from the wall of flame, unable to look away.

Which was why he didn’t hear their approach, only the sharp warning of his mark causing him to turn around in time to stop the downward stroke of an armed blighter.

There was a group of them. All fallen Mudamorian soldiers from the look of them, and they wore armor and carried the swords they’d died with.