He shifted his gaze, and only then did he see a figure in a black robe standing on the far side of the rift, slightly off to one side. Unimposing at first glance. The hood hid the face so completely he couldn’t see a scrap of skin. One hand was raised as if holding a rope and drawing something up from the depths. The other, stretched to the side, indicated now the walls, now the postern by the moat. Each time, a moment later, the monsters changed direction. The movements were precise, unhurried. Something hung at the figure’s neck—an amulet. From this distance he couldn’t make it out.

  A handful of people burst from the gate vestibule: a few with pitchforks, one in an apron—perhaps a smith—two children carrying bowls. They already knew the fortress would fall. They ran. A wolf caught the first man, took him down, and tore out his throat. Blood geysered high. The smith smashed his hammer into the demon until the metal boomed. A second beast leapt onto his back and began to worry at his neck. The children ran on, clutching the bowls as if they could keep them safe. He remembered—the bowls might hold water blessed at the chapel. A winged creature dropped from above and snatched one bowl into the air. The other fell, rolled, and came to rest by a giant’s foot; he didn’t even look down before flattening it to a sheet of tin.

  Algar didn’t move. He had no way to. There was no room for heroics. No room for anything. The realization sat on his chest and held there until his breath shortened. The world had proved to him again and again this night that what a person does is not enough. It seemed even the gods were of no use.

  There is only death here, he told himself—silently, but certain. If he was to live, he had to run. The wall was only a line now—something for demons to step over.

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  He lowered his head, backed into the thicker shadow, and started down the gentle slope toward the river. He could skirt the fortress in an arc along the tree line and then take the road toward Starburn. Father had once said there’s a path between capitals and strongholds that’s drawn on no map.

  He stumbled—not on a root, but on something soft with something hard inside. He pitched forward; his hands flew out; his nails scraped earth. The axe haft struck a stone and rang once.

  He rolled to his side to see what he’d caught on. First, he saw a scrap of shirt. Then a face.

  Ron. The castle runner—the lad who carried letters down to the village. They were about the same age. A week ago, they’d talked at the tavern about the high boots Ron meant to buy as soon as he’d saved enough. Now his eyes were too wide, and his mouth hung open. Two bites marked his back. His left leg was gone from the knee. The blood no longer steamed, but the ground around him was still dark and tacky.

  Algar sat a moment, stunned. His first thought was cruel and true: it could have been him lying there. In some selfish, compassionless way, he felt a flicker of relief that it wasn’t. Shame followed at once.

  He stood carefully. He brushed his hands on his trousers, then wiped them on the grass, as if he could erase the touch. He couldn’t. He couldn’t take Ron with him. He couldn’t even close the boy’s eyes—afraid he would feel how thin the boundary was beneath his fingers.

  He looked once more at the wall. Winged sheets of shadow circled above the fire.

  To Starburn. The words came on their own and held. They weren’t a vow of vengeance. They were a line to set your feet on so you don’t fall.

  He touched the axe again. The haft was warm from his palm. He edged along in the darker patches until the fire weakened behind him, and the smoke thinned into bands he could slip past.

  He didn’t look back. He had seen enough—enough for today and for many years. The world he knew had fallen to pieces, but his legs still knew how to walk. That was enough for now. He would think later what to do with the rest.