rangers in the forests-but mostly they were massing on the road that led west from the city, along the lake shore, to Greenheart. One by one, more and more companies joined the body and melted in, row upon row upon row of soldiers in perfect lines.
Jordhan kept them high above the army, well out of bowshot. The brilliant noonday sun, blazing in a perfect autumn sky, gleamed on the helmets of the soldiers, glinted off their spearheads, sparkled on their armor. Their boots were a distant rumble of thunder on the road.
EPILOGUE
Vultures soared in the air, riding the updrafts along the edge of the Shadowcrags.
Magnificent birds, thought Kathrik Mel.
His gaze swept along the snow-capped mountains, which for so long had stood as a barrier between him and his destiny. He shook his fist at them, cursing them, and then laughed. He turned, and his eyes took in the grandeur, the majesty of his horde.
They swept down from the foothills and into the forest, killing every living thing they saw in a frenzy of bloodlust. The forest was ablaze, fire leaping in the dry autumn leaves. They had achieved their first victory-a trivial matter-and already the chants were gaining strength and drawing closer. “Sacrifice for Kathrik Mel!”
The prisoners were tall and slender, hideous with perfection, their faces serene. He would cut the placid stares from their faces. He spat, whirled, and sat on his throne, lashed together from the bones of his enemies. He slid the sword, Bloodclaw, from its sheath and admired its gleaming blade.
A rustle of scales arose behind him, and the dragon’s neck snaked out around the back of the throne.
“Tell me again,” Kathrik Mel demanded, and the dragon did.
He traced his finger absently up and down the edge of Blood-claw’s blade as the dragon whispered in his ear. Midnight blue sparks flared to life where he touched the sword, proof that the sword was fully his at last. The blood of the Maruks had sealed it, as he had hoped.
“Dragons fly before the Blasphemer’s legions,” the dragon hissed, “scouring the earth of his righteous foes.”
Scouring the earth-he liked that. Not just washing or cleansing. Scouring meant attacking a stain, a pestilent blot, burning it away or cutting it out. He would scour the earth.
“Carnage rises in the wake of his passing, purging all life from those who oppose him.”
“Yes…” he murmured, biting his lip and tasting blood.
“Vultures wheel where dragons flew, picking the bones of the numberless dead.”
There would be dead beyond counting. Kathrik Mel stood again, unable to contain his excitement.
The Blasphemer had come, and all the armies of Khorvaire could not stand against him.
