[chopper]

okay, here's where it ended up. sits a bit better?


The ground beyond the gatehouse was overgrown and strewn with weeds that tugged at her ankles. The gutted remains of buildings lined both walls ahead as they narrowed toward the tower that watched over the entrance to the valley: daylight filtered through their collapsed slate roofs to reveal their hollowed-out interiors. The open-fronted building on her left had probably been a stabling block - she had spent too long sleeping in those not to recognise one - while the garrison’s barracks had been built against the opposite wall.

Malessar sat in the entrance to the stables, tending a fire that he had banked with loose bricks that had fallen from the walls. A small covered pot hung from a wire frame rigged over the fire. The warlock poked at the fire distractedly with a stick, but looked up and actually smiled as Cassia approached.

“As you see, I’ve not lost all of my talents over the years,” he said wryly. “I can still make a fire without servants to assist me, although finding any dry wood here presented some difficulties.”

Cassia found a larger stone nearby that she could roll into position on the other side of the fire. By the time she had done that Craw had joined them, gazing up at the towers and the ramparts that linked them with great interest.

Malessar seemed content to stare into the cookfire, losing himself inside his mind again while the contents of the clay pot warmed slowly. The silence quickly began to unnerve Cassia once more: her imagination placed ghostly observers at the arrow slits high in the towers and malignant spirits waiting inside the old barracks to ensnare her if she dared explore the fort on her own.

Had this place died when Canevaril fell? Had its commander fought to the last, or had the garrison fled out of the mountains, leaving the fort to wither in nature’s grasp? Cassia suppressed a cold shudder, thinking suddenly of men chained in dank cellars, screaming desperately, but in vain for somebody to help them, their cries smothered by the empty towers.

“What is this place?” she asked, unable to bear the quiet any longer. Her voice sounded too loud in the enclosed bailey.

Malessar sighed softly. “The border fortress of Karakhel,” he said. “One of the great strongholds of the old kingdom. Solonel, the son of Forochel, had it built. There was a town once, a little further down the road. Where you have soldiers, you have a need for ale and wine, and the town of Karakhel grew quickly, supporting the garrison and trade with the lowlands.”

“There was an inn of some ill-repute,” Craw said, his gaze still resting on the crenelations above the gatehouse. “A place for young men who thought they were immortal.”

The words were softly spoken, but Cassia saw the warlock flinch. “The Dragon’s Cup.”

She hesitated. “I didn’t see a town as we came up. What happened to Karakhel?”

There was a long awkward pause, and she wished she had not asked the question when Malessar raised his head and she saw the raging tumult of grief and anger in his eyes.

“It died,” he said harshly.