Fate of the Drowned (The Broken Lands Book 3) by Carrie Summers

Author:Carrie Summers [Summers, Carrie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-12-13T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Five

Fishel

Preparing to leave Westpass Garrison

FISHEL FELT EVERY one of his fifty-seven years as he trudged along the edge of the road, checking with groups of refugees and making a mental tally of the remaining supplies. It didn’t look good. It wasn’t just that a full third of their rations had been lost in the fire. When he stacked the amount of burned food alongside the number of ruined bedrolls and charred shelters, the tallies in his head were grim.

Mountain settlements might spare them livestock or grain. But they had to get there first. The people were already sick. Worn down like the stumps of an old man’s teeth. Without adequate food and shelter from the cold nights… well, they wouldn’t be able to travel quickly, that was certain.

Ahead, the small group of Atal stood in a sullen knot. Remarkably, they were even more bedraggled than the Prov refugees. Men and women swayed on their feet, and many had given up standing altogether. In the center of the huddle, a group of teenagers lay stretched on the road.

“Do you have what you need to march?” Fishel asked as he approached.

The father and son he’d argued with down on the plateau stepped forward. For better or for worse, the Atal seemed to have nominated them as spokesmen.

“To be honest, sire,” the son said. “We haven’t done well with managing our supplies. The food we brought was gone before we reached the garrison… in that regard, we fared better than many others in the fire. Nothing to lose.” He shrugged.

In past years, Fishel might have been amused to hear an Atal elite call him “sire.” But these last days had wiped away the distinction between Atal and Prov and even between Emperor and soldier. They were all in this together.

“What about shelter?”

Even in the predawn light, the young man’s expression turned sheepish. “We’ve existed on charity, sire. Others have given us space in their shelters at night.”

“Then perhaps you can help them carry the tents today.”

The son looked at the ground. “Many of us offered. The Provs scoffed at the idea that we’d be any help carrying the loads. Just slow the whole procession down, they said.”

“Well,” Fishel said. “I suppose they have a right to judge. If you haven’t visited the kitchen, please take your morning meal. I’ll see that you receive modest loads for today’s march. The wagons must remain here, so everyone needs to carry what they can.”

“Excuse me? Fishel, sire?”

A hiss rose from the center of the group as a boy pushed out of the huddle. Fishel glimpsed his face before his mother pulled him back into the group. It was the same child who’d tried to speak with him on the plateau. Before, Fishel had walked away. But now, the Spawn were coming, and there was little the refugees could do to defend themselves. It was no time for secrets.

He shoved into the knot of men and women and laid a hand on the mother’s shoulder. “I’d like to hear what he has to say,” he said mildly.

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