by John Migacz
CHAPTER 45
Dieya strode through the burned out wreckage of Eastedge Stronghold, his fists clenched in rage. Eastedge had been one of Baron Genardt’s garrisons. Genardt was one of three Border Barons helping to maintain control of the King’s eastern provinces. Their position on the edge of the Great Grass Plains had kept raiders and the Sevoal tribes in check for decades.
Until now.
From the condition of the bodies, the attack must have been well over a week ago but the foul smell and swarming flies still lingered. He walked with jaw set from room to room, looking for survivors or any sign of the raider’s identity. Bodies lay where they had fallen. He thought the nursery was the most horrific sight until he got to the chapel. This was where the Keep warlord and his stalwarts had held to the last. The charred, tortured bodies were piled in a heap in the center of the floor. A trail of blood marked the path of one man who crawled away while burning alive.
Dieya stepped into the chapel sanctuary. One defender’s body, filled with a dozen wounds, lay on the floor. The ground outside the door was thick with dried blood. The broken sword in the dead man’s hand held a score of nicks. Dieya gave solemn homage to this warrior. He had sent many foes to the abyss before him and no one would sing of his valor.
A glint of light shone between the fingers of the fallen hero’s clutched left hand. Dieya pried open the man’s fingers and removed the item. It was an elaborate Arvari-made jeweled brooch, used for holding a cloak closed. A scrap of leather still remained in the clasp. When his sword broke, the warrior must have grappled with his opponent and torn loose the brooch.
Dieya examined the Arvari markings on the brooch. “For Isundir’s Love” was inscribed in the silver surrounding a green emerald. He looked once more to the fallen warrior, and nodded. Perhaps his death would not have been in vain. Placing the brooch in his pouch, he walked out to the courtyard, his thoughts churning. Who did this? This area had been quiet for decades. Was this an isolated incident or part of a Kraken agenda?
He examined the smashed and burned outer gate. Only a battering ram could have taken it down. The garrison had been looted and the enemy had taken away their dead. Searching the ground, he found only the tracks of three-toed ehtas, the type of mount ridden by the nomadic tribes.
He idly plucked an arrow from the gate as his thoughts swam. The Sevoal couldn’t have stormed a garrison this size. The grassland people were comprised of many small tribes who rarely banded together. They were simple nomads who still used flint arrowheads. Perhaps this was a misdirection to lay blame on the grassland people.
The only clue of the raiders’ identity was the shaft he held in his hand. He scrutinized the arrow. Its shaft was completely red, from notch to steel arrowhead. The guards in the outer yard were feathered with them. He knew the nomadic tribes distinctively marked their arrows but he had never heard of a tribe that used the mark of a red arrow. Nor did the Sevoal know the secret of making steel.
Dieya walked through the gate and glanced back at the Keep. The number of bodies didn’t account for all the people who would have been living there. He’d have to scour the countryside and look for anyone who had gotten away, or seen what had occurred. If he found no one, he would visit the Arvari and track down the owner of the brooch.
He had no proof but felt deep in his heart that this was somehow the work of the Kraken agent. He looked down at the red arrow in his hand and angrily snapped it in two. Walking toward the distant tree line, he let the pieces fall to the ground.