Chapter 21 Declan #2
There were odd pockets in the stone, as if someone had scooped them out with a large spoon.
I traced a finger into the divots, as understanding dawned.
The stone had melted, creating craters where none existed before.
How much heat and rage were required to liquify stone?
“Declan. Come here. Now.”
I lurched from the inn. My mind reeled, and my stomach churned. Nothing made sense. Nothing felt real.
Tears of anger and pain clouded my vision.
I stumbled into the snow.
I looked down to find another frozen Ranger with arrows protruding from his body.
It was Cormac.
Cormac Silivan.
The best of my trainees. The rising star. The one who would make a better Ranger than I ever could.
His face held such youth, such promise.
I rose to my knees and retched.
A moment passed before I found my footing and once again staggered toward my former home.
I could scarcely recognize the headquarters until I stood a few paces from its entrance. The giant front door still rested in its mighty frame, but it no longer guarded the hall built for a thousand souls.
Now it guarded a grave.
An immense mound of snow towered above. It shrouded tons of wood and ash and flesh.
How many men and women lay interned in that mound?
How many of my brothers and sisters?
I stepped to the door, removed a glove, and stretched a bare hand toward the charred wood. I didn’t know why I reached out. I felt compelled.
Was I paying some personal tribute to the lost?
Or did I just want to feel connected to the place—and the people—who were no more?
I knew not.
When my hand touched the door, my head swam.
My heart raced, and sweat bloomed across my brow.
Horror, pain, and grief ripped through my chest, and I sank to my knees.
“DECLAN!” órla screamed in my mind as she darted from the sky.
Visions seized control.
My eyes rolled back, and images flashed from one disjointed moment to the next.
The night is crisp and clear, the moon a sliver.
Snow has yet to fall.
Grove’s Pass stands quiet.
Smoke curls from chimneys.
The few unfortunate Rangers on gate duty chat quietly through chattering teeth.
A single bell tolls.
On any other night, no one would care. Had a guard on duty bumped the bell with a sword? Had he fiddled with the clapper or the hammer in boredom, accidentally slamming one or the other into the side of the cast iron dome?
A single peal would never send the village into a blur of activity.
It might wake the children.
But this wasn’t any other night.
The vision shifted.
Captain Whitman bolts from his office.
He looks terrified.
As he runs toward the front of the building, he barks alarm to everyone he passes. Steady, deliberate motion transforms into a frenzy in moments.
By the time the Captain reaches the door, men in green cloaks line every wall, bows drawn, arrows nocked.
Young boys race with more supplies of arrows.
Torches bloom every few paces outside the wall’s protective ring.
The Captain looks up at the signal tower, trying to make out silhouettes that blur in the twilight. There should only be one man on that platform.
He sees two.
Then one shadow falls to the ground with a heavy thud.
Before he can react, men cry out from every direction.
His head swivels, searching.
He takes one step before the first arrow slams into his shoulder.
Shock floods his eyes as a second arrow strikes his thigh, then a third his stomach.
He tumbles to his knees.
Rangers race from inside the building to aid their fallen Captain, but bolts rip into them as they darken the doorway.
A whistler arrow streaks from the forest beyond the wall, its shrill shriek jarring the silent night.
Rangers manning the walls fire arrows blindly into the woods toward their unseen foes. Responding missiles have no difficulty finding their well-lit targets as volley after deadly volley flies true, eradicating the defenders in moments.
Civilians pour from their homes, men and women carrying children or belongings, anything their arms could hold, screaming and crying as they race toward the eastern gate, desperate to escape.
When defenders on the walls fall silent, dozens of archers and swordsmen rush from the woods. Thick fur cloaks fly behind them as they run.
A ball of fire sails from the forest, incinerating a section of wall.
The intruding men barely slow as they pass through the smoldering gap.
Enemy archers form a line a few paces inside the wall, while swordsmen continue their charge.
Rangers pour out of the headquarters. They are cut down by flying steel the moment they taste fresh air.
Before long, a pile of dead Rangers bars the door as effectively as wood once had.
Shira is among them.
Shira!
Screaming civilians run or freeze altogether, unable to process the slaughter unfolding before them. Anyone moving is shot by arrow or sliced by sword.
A trickle of blood along the road grows into a stream as more topple and bleed.
Cries erupt from every direction—screams of men and women, of their children—screams of terror, pain, and death.
No one is spared.
My mouth filled with a metallic tang, as though I tasted the bitter fruit of the enemy’s wrath.