How fitting, then, that he should now find himself back here. Alone.
Romaine scrunched his eyes closed, struggling to contain the pain, the sorrow. He had failed them all—Lukys, Travis, Dale and so many others—failed to protect them, to save them. Now they were all gone, slain by the Tangata, their corpses left for the scavengers.
Was he cursed to forever suffer this grief, to watch everyone he cared for perish, while he lived on? Even his family had been taken from him, so long ago now, yet the wound still felt fresh. The memory of his son lying dead in the snow, of his wife’s silent corpse, haunted him to this day. They too he had lost to the Tangata, the first of many he had loved. After a decade of war, Romaine was tired of counting the bodies.
At least there was still Cara.
Regret touched him as he thought of the young woman. She might have saved the others, might have saved them all, if only he had not been so blinded by his hatred. He’d thought her a spy, one of the Tangata that had learned to camouflage itself amongst humanity. They’d all seen her eyes in those awful tunnels, seen the grey madness of the enemy lurking there.
But they’d been wrong.
Cara wasn’t Tangata at all, nor even human. She was a God.
Driven by desperation, she had revealed herself on the banks of the Illmoor River. The sight of her soaring across the muddied waters, auburn wings spread wide, was one Romaine would remember until his dying days.
He could hardly believe it now, that one of the Divine had hidden amongst them, had spoken with them, befriended them. The Gods were mythical beings, their true nature long since hidden beneath rumour and legend. To think of one living amongst humanity…it changed everything.
Yet even Cara’s power was limited. Alone, she had fought to rescue their friends. But it had not been enough to stem the tide of Tangata that had swarmed across the banks of the Illmoor. In the end she had been forced to retreat, able only to save the Queen’s Archivist, Erika. The others…
Romaine scrunched his eyes closed and levered himself to his feet. The agony returned to his chest, but it seemed preferable now to the pain of his loss. He staggered to the trunk at the foot of his bed and retrieved a fresh tunic—the one he still wore was stained with blood. It was a struggle to pull it over his broad shoulders with only one hand. So strange, how he could feel it still. If he closed his eyes, he could swear his fingers were there...
But no, better he face reality. There was only the ruined stump now. The thought filled him with dread, and his gaze was drawn to the great-axe that had been left propped against the head of his bed. He reached for it, then paused.
The axe was a two-handed weapon. Desperation had allowed him to wield it against the Tangata in defence of his friends, but even then, only by luck had he survived the encounter. No, it would be the height of arrogance to continue carrying it into battle. His hand returned to his side and he clenched it into a fist. He would need to find a new weapon.
In the meantime, Romaine turned his attention back to dressing himself, pulling on a fresh pair of pants and a belt. The simple manoeuvre left him panting, the pain in his chest robbing him of strength. But he managed it before slumping back to the bed, gasping.
The murmur of voices came from outside as the citizens of Fogmore woke to begin their days, and the squeak of boards from overhead announced that his neighbours had risen. Romaine let out a sigh, struggling to beat back the despair. What was the point of leaving his bed? If not for Erika, he would have lain down and died back on the banks of the Illmoor. He would have finally been free. Now he wondered what madness had taken him, that he had listened to the woman.
She had claimed to be the daughter of his fallen king. Even now, the thought made his stomach flutter. The Calafe king had been slain in the first battle against the Tangata, when he’d led an allied army deep into enemy territory. It was said the enemy had taken him by surprise, decimating the Calafe forces before the Flumeeren warrior queen had come to their aid. That had been the beginning of the end for his people.
Maybe that was why, through the pain and fatigue, he had accepted Erika’s claim so readily. But in the cold light of day, her assertion seemed farcical.
The voices in the street were growing louder, and letting out a sigh, Romaine rose from the bed. He took a moment to gather his strength, then staggered to the door and slipped into his boots. Deciding the laces were beyond him, he pushed out into the street instead. A cold breeze greeted him, a reminder that winter had not yet released its grip on the land. Ducking his head beneath the doorway, Romaine stepped outside.
A light snow was falling, though the passage of people had already crushed it into the muddy streets. Clouds hid the sun above, but from the faintness of the light Romaine knew it still to be early. He pulled the door closed and started down the three wooden steps that led to street level, taking care not to slip on any ice and injure himself further.
“Romaine!”
He had just placed his boot into the puddle at the bottom of the stairs when a voice cut through the crowd. A moment later, he glimpsed the scout Lorene moving towards him down the street. The man had not accompanied the Perfugians south with Romaine, but he was probably one of the
