Thorne soldiers poured through the streets in a show of strength. His father seemed to have raised the entire castle garrison. News must have reached him of Longreen’s attack. Grim doubted the other assaults in the Outwalls fared better than his own. He hadn’t realized it during the fighting, but his left arm throbbed with a blinding pain where the ram had shattered his shield. He thought it likely fractured and feared the sight of it when he got a chance to take his armor off.

Longreen would not release him for rest yet. The man insisted they regroup at his villa and await news of survivors. Of the four hundred Greencloaks who had entered the Son’s manse, only twenty-four remained. Grim commandeered a passing group of his father’s soldiers and they joined him with a shrug, reinforcing Grim’s belief that their presence was more for show than anything else.

Edgar and what was left of his squad were carted away, leaving Grim and a fifty-man strong contingent with Longreen and the remainder of his men. The Marshal was helped atop his horse and winced in pain with every step the beast made. Grim was surprised he could keep the saddle at all. The man’s right leg was shattered with bone bent at awkward angles. Just looking at it, made Grim’s legs itch.

The first thing Grim noticed of the fort was that the gate was open. The Marshal noticed as well and called a halt. The marching boots ceased. Longreen looked up at the empty parapets, green and gold flags drifting gently in the wind. The Marshal looked to Grim and gestured toward the gate. Grim sighed. Some things never change.

He raised his hand into the air and waved it forward, signaling an advance. The gate loomed over him, thankfully there was no portcullis. It was the one thing he liked about this place. Then the stale stench of blood and burning drifted to him on a breeze. Grim emerged into a blackened field. Smoldering tents lined the road with singed bodies lying among them. Hundreds of Blackened arrows protruded from corpses and stuck in the ground. Grim looked up at the walls, seeing the corpses of sentries given similar treatment. Thin rivulets of blood trickled down the stone. He heard the men behind him drawing their weapons. He followed their example.

It looked as if the attackers had burned every tent in the field, but the fire had failed to spread through the well-watered grass. At least the Marshal’s premium on beauty had some practical application. Grim led his men down the cobbled road toward the villa. Its gates hung open, ominously inviting. The men posted there could be seen face down on the road in the garden. Arrows protruded from their legs and their backs were cut to ribbons. They had been played with. Grim’s boots squelched as he passed their bodies. He looked over his shoulder at Longreen. The man was pale as a sheet, seeming to have forgotten his pain as his eyes shifted across the scene.

The fountain still burbled as if nothing had happened. The yard in front of the villa was oddly serene. A horse whinnied in the distance. All else was quiet. Grim approached the double doors of the mansion, willing strength into his body. Divines he felt weak, but morbid curiosity drove him onward.

Grim stood between the door and the fountain. “Shield wall,” he ordered. The Thorne soldiers formed a wall of shields four men deep around Grim.

“You two, open the doors.” The men Grim indicated fell out of formation and ran to the doors. He could sense their nervousness and it was a feeling he shared. The men held the bronze rings of the doors and looked to him. Grim nodded and they pulled them open.

Grim winced involuntarily, expecting a volley of arrows to come flying from inside. Nothing. Grim slowly rose to his full height, mouth agape. Bodies littered the ground. Their blood drenched the white marble floor. It looked as if they were floating atop a sea of red. Grim put a hand on one of the soldier’s shoulders. “Tell the Marshal he needs to wait in the garden.”

The man nodded and broke formation at a jog. Grim followed him from safety and walked to the doors. The men holding them open watched him with fear filled eyes. Grim crossed the threshold and cast his gaze across all the places Sons could be hiding in wait. He saw nothing save the bodies of more Greencloaks. This was where they made their last stand.

Grim walked to the center of the hall, past the bodies of soldiers and serving girls alike. Bloody handprints marred the walls by the doors, showing where the wounded fled. Grim stood in the center of the carnage, waiting for the roaring battle cries of men blessed by the Reaper to come tearing from dark corridors. He imagined black eyes watching his every movement. But he knew it to be his imagining. Those who did this were already long gone. The singed remains of the great Venaran flag above the stairs lay on the ground, soaking in the blood like a sponge, turning the green red. In its place hung a great banner with the face of a wolf. The sigil of Gareth Sorrowsbane, first king of the Rills and scion of the fourth clan.

The seven sorrows were his legacy. Rain, birth, love, drink, feast, joy, and sacrifice. Grim finally allowed his eyes drift to the punishment many considered to be the eighth. On the landing of the great stairwell a wooden cross had been hammered into the tile. Carys hung from her elbows, her arms twisted into a mockery of wings. Her clothing had been ripped from her and blood dripped form her every orifice. Her unseeing eyes gazed down at him. Grim stepped over the corpses in the hall, making his way to her. Behind him, he could hear the Thorne soldiers filing into the room. Their low muttering and the wet sloshing of boots in blood were the only sounds.

Grim ascended the steps, kicking the discarded sledgehammer out of his way as he reached the landing. He grabbed the ladder from the stairs and laid it against the wall next to the girl. He climbed its steps to the heavy steel nail holding her right arm in place. Using his borrowed axe, he pried the nail out. The six-inch piece of steel fell to the tile with a metallic clang. Her corpse slumped. A snap and the tearing of flesh followed as her left elbow gave way. Grim cursed and tried to catch her but her corpse fell to the ground with a dull thump.

Grim gritted his teeth, climbing down the ladder. His men were milling aimlessly about the room, looking around in shock. “Clear the house,” Grim barked.

His voice echoed in the hall and the soldiers jumped then followed his command, grouping up and setting off down the halls. Grim laid Carys flat along the ground. He removed his cloak and laid it over her.

Grim fell to the floor, leaning back against the cross and shuddering. He’d hardly had a moment’s peace before the Greencloaks entered the hall with the Marshal at their rear, still astride his horse.

Horror crossed their faces, but none was more pronounced than that of the Marshal. He kicked the horse into a trot, it’s hooves echoing in the vast hall. “Thorne,” he cried, “Who was on that cross?”

Grim looked at the man but didn’t answer. Longreen was asking questions he already knew the answer to. When the Marshal reached the stairs, he more fell to the ground than dismounted. He crawled up the stairs. A Greencloak rushed to his side, trying to help but the Marshal pushed the man away, clawing up the last few paces.

He crawled to the covered corpse and with a shaky hand, drew the cloak back from Carys’s face. The scream that followed boomed through the room. The purest note of pain Grim had ever heard. In that moment, looking at the man crying over his daughter, it was the most human Grim had ever seen him.

***

Grim sat on the edge of the fountain, the blood freshly washed from his hands and the soot rinsed from his face. A dark, ruddy cloud hung in the water where he washed, wisps of red fading in the blackened water. It reminded him of the Son’s eyes today. Veins of darkness. He hadn’t seen the like since his childhood. At the memory, an uncomfortable longing stirred in his breast, resembling the feeling he had when going too long without drink. He let out a slow breath, forcing his mind to other matters. Melna must have done it for them. He wondered what Edgar would think of that.

His thoughts were cut off by the distant groan of the wrought iron gate. Grim looked up to see his father astride his Wargoat, bedecked in full plate, similar to Grim’s. He was flanked by the majority of the Briar Guard astride their own mounts, a smattering of horses and goats. Each man had their preference. He sat waiting as they drew closer, weapons drawn. There was no need for that. They’d cleared the entire house and found nothing.

His father pulled in the reins of his mount. The beast fought it, snorting but the Earl’s will proved stronger and the goat relented, baying unhappily as the Earl dismounted. Grim rose to his feet as his father crossed the last few paces separating them.

The man gave a slight nod and clapped a hand on Grim’s shoulder. The injured one. Grim fought the urge to wince. The Earl pulled him alongside him as they began to walk toward the double doors. “What do I need to know?”

Grim told him everything that happened. As he reached the end, he finished, “Survivors have been trickling in from the Outwalls.” He was sorry to say Harren was among them.

“The Sons gave token resistance, drew the Regulars in and collapsed the tunnels on their own heads. Buried damn near the entire southern Garrison.” The memory of the twitching hands sent chills down his spine.

The Earl stood in the doorway, gazing across the massacre with cold eyes. Grim had no doubt he’d seen worse. The Earl released a soft sigh. “His daughter?”

Grim nodded.

The Earl cursed under his breath. “I’ve instituted martial law. The city militia has been called to arms and will work in tandem with our own men. The city is quiet for now but news of this will spread like a plague. The back of the Southern troops has been broken.” He ran a hand across his face, looking up to where Longreen sat cradling his daughter’s body.

“In this city of two hundred and fifty thousand souls, at least four thousand are of southern heritage. I expect most will be dead by the end of the week.”

Grim fought the urge to swallow. “Do you think the king will send a legion?” His mind filled with memories of the last purge, the bodies pushed to the side of the road to make way for carts of metal and spice.

“Perhaps. I need to consider our next move carefully. You did well to keep him alive. We might still find a way to forestall a final confrontation.” He hesitated. “This might be the first time you’ve done what I’ve expected of you.”

Grim raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“Made me proud,” he said, “Now go rest.” With that, he walked into the bloodied chamber, not sparing Grim a second glance.