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autumn fields—patchworks of brown, green, yellow, stabbed
with trees, slashed with bare hedgerows. In the distance West could
see the outermost walls of Adua, a stern grey line pimpled with
towers. Behind, in a lighter grey, the vague shapes of buildings
jutted skywards. Above them loomed the towering ghost of the House of
the Maker, stark and unrepentant. All in all, it was a grim
homecoming.
    There was not so
much as a breath of wind. The crisp air was strangely still. Just as
if there was no war, no rival armies drawing up, no bloody battles
scheduled to begin. West swept his eye-glass back and forth, but he
could scarcely see any hint of the Gurkish. Perhaps he imagined a
tiny fence, down there before the walls, perhaps the outlines of
pinprick spears, but at this distance, in this light, he could be
sure of nothing.
    â€œThey must
be expecting us. They must be.â€

Sacrifices
    Dogman squeezed
through the gate along with a rush of others, some Northmen and an
awful lot of Union boys, all pouring into the city after that excuse
for a battle outside. There were a few folk scattered on the walls
over the archway, cheering and whooping like they were at a wedding.
A fat man in a leather apron was standing on the other side of the
tunnel, clapping folk on the back as they came past. “Thank
you, friend! Thank you!â€

Open the Box
    Logen could feel
the doubt in the men around him, could see the worry on their faces,
in the way they held their weapons, and he didn’t blame them. A
man can be fearless on his own doorstep, against enemies he
understands, but take him long miles over the salty sea to strange
places he never dreamed of, he’ll take fright at every empty
doorway. And there were an awful lot of those, now.
    The city of
white towers, where Logen had hurried after the First of the Magi,
amazed at the scale of the buildings, the strangeness of the people,
the sheer quantity of both, had become a maze of blackened ruins.
They crept down empty streets, lined with the outsize skeletons of
burned-out houses, charred rafters stabbing at the sky. They crept
across empty squares, scattered with rubble and dusted with ash.
Always the sounds of battle echoed, ghostly—near, far, all
around them.
    It was as if
they crept through hell.
    â€œHow d’you
fight in this?â€

Dark Paths
    Jezal hurried
through the tall archway and into the gardens of the palace, his
Knights around him. It was remarkable that High Justice Marovia had
been able to keep pace with them on their dash through the Agriont,
but the old man scarcely seemed out of breath. “Seal the
gates!â€

Reckonings
    Red Hat had been
right. There was no reason for anyone to die here. No one but the
Bloody-Nine, at least. It was high time that bastard took his share
of the blame.
    â€œStill
alive,â€

After the Rains
    Logen leaned on
the parapet, high up on a tower at one side of the palace, and
frowned into the wind. He’d done the same, it felt an age ago
now, from the top of the Tower of Chains. He’d stared out
dumbstruck at the endless city, wondering if he could ever have
dreamed of a man-made thing so proud, and beautiful, and
indestructible as the Agriont.
    By the dead, how
times change.
    The green space
of the park was scattered with fallen rubbish, trees broken, grass
gouged, half the lake leaked away and sunken to a muddy bog. At its
western edge a sweep of fine white buildings still stood, even if the
windows gaped empty. Further west, and they had no roofs, bare
rafters hanging. Further still their walls were torn and scoured,
empty shells, choked with rubble.
    Beyond that,
there was nothing. The great hall with the golden dome, gone. The
square where Logen had watched the sword-game, gone. The Tower of
Chains, the mighty wall under it, and all the grand buildings over
which Logen had fled with Ferro. All gone.
    A colossal
circle of destruction was carved from the western end of the