THERE WAS NO one left alive. Set on stone shelves were jars containing indescribable, reeking, congealing meat, and heaps of clothes turned into a bed of sorts. A foul, vile nest. There was little else to explain what they had found at Brokewrist Castle. Kinro returned with a solemn shake of his head. Many had died, but at least the abomination would claim no more. The bags it had been carrying contained only some clothes and books, one of which Kinro burned on the spot using a candle the demon had left lit in the inner chamber. Ulrem did not ask why. He didn’t need to. He could feel it.
Kinro did these things without comment, carrying the morning flower with him for light. The castle loomed silent around them, its dark heart dead once more.
Despite his refusal to speak on it, Ulrem could not help but consider the demon’s words as they hiked back to the town. Nearly twenty winters had passed since he had heard his father’s voice. And he knew his father was dead. Yet the demon had spoken with that voice, digging its talons into his heart. He feared the worst: had his father’s soul been cast into the lightless cells of the black hells? Or was it some trick, a desperate last resort of foul devilry? Was there any way to know?
Ulrem knew not whose hand had killed his father. He never would.
They returned to town in the blue dawn, each man carrying a bundle of the recovered, blood-stained clothes in their arms. The villagers swept out to meet them, taking their children’s meager remains and comforting one another. But they shunned the filthy men who had returned victorious from Brokewrist Castle.
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Near the edge of town, standing apart from his fellows like a pariah, the crofter called Desdro wept openly when he saw the two warriors carrying the heap of clothes. He fled, howling, into the morning.
“You survived,” said Shen, the thatcher’s son. He and some other youths had drawn near, ignoring the suspicion of their elders. “You’re covered in blood though. What happened?”
“Were there no survivors?” asked the man with the milky eye. Imro, the rope-maker.
Kinro shook his head solemnly and gave them the morning flower. Slowly, a crowd gathered around the gem, whose light was fading. The townsfolk needed to mourn, but they needed an explanation even more. Softly, Kinro explained what they had found, and how they had killed the thing that dwelt in the shadows. Beside him, Ulrem stood silently among them, proud eyes raised to the dawn.
The demon had taken something from him, denying him a clean victory. A storm was building behind his gray eyes. The vigor of victory had been sapped from him like the breath from a dying man, but still, he had a dangerous look about him.
Kinro held up a small bag before the big man’s eyes. “For your blood and time,” the little man said.
He counted out half the coins in the bag and thrust them out at Ulrem.
He pocketed the ransom. It was time to move on. Ghosts lingered here, and he was unwelcome amongst them. Yet, Kinro stood waiting and peering at him like a raptor.
“Where to?” Ulrem asked.
Kinro knelt and picked up a fistful of dirt. “We fall and fly where the wind wills, Lion.”