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Praying Yrene wasn’t near it.
He’d barely seen her during these days of
bloodshed and exhaustion. Hadn’t had a
chance to tell her what he knew. To tell her
what was in his heart. He’d settled for a deep
but brief kiss, and then rushed to whatever
part of the battlements he’d been needed at.
Chaol drew his sword, the freshly polished
metal whining as it came free of the sheath.
The fingers of his other hand tightened around
the handles of his shield. A ruk rider’s shield,
light and meant for swift combat. The brace
that held him in the saddle remained steady,
its buckles secure.
The soldiers lining the battlements stirred
at the nearing siege tower. The horrors inside.
“They were once men,” Chaol called, his
voice carrying over the clamor of the battle
beyond the keep walls, “they can still die like
them.”