A Fortress of Grey Ice (Book 2) (91 page)

His grin fell a bit as he left the main path and took the little horse-trail that led to the Lok farm. No smoke. Darra must be cleaning out the hearth. A shiver of anxiety passed down through his shoulders into his spine. This trail hadn’t been walked on for months. The grass was thick and untrodden. And the apple trees in the east orchard—they hadn’t been cut back since before winter. Darra usually tended them like babies.

Angus Lok’s mouth went dry.

As the trail wound around a low mound of blackberry bushes, he caught his first sight of the house. Burned. The walls were black and the roof had partially collapsed. Even before the horror of it hit him, there was a part of his brain that took in the details. This had not been recently done. There was no odor of char in the air, and the blackening on the walls had been crazily streaked by many rains.

“They got away,” he said out loud, hardly knowing that he did it. “They must have got away.”

But he’d been a member of the Phage too long to fool himself with false hope. For twenty years he’d been trained for the worst.

And now it was finally here.

The Sull horse knew, he
knew
, and he slowed to let his rider dismount. Angus’s feet touched earth, and he made a bargain with his gods. “Take me now,” he murmured. “Bring them back and take me instead.”

The gods didn’t answer. The gods were dead.

Angus took a breath to steady himself, and then walked into his house.