Hart swung up into the saddle. “Burn it to the ground.” Digging his heel cruelly into Cedric’s side, he brought the beast around and headed toward the path. Let his men deal with the aftermath. Those who were still living. His hands on the reins, black gloved, were white knuckled under the supple leather. All of Hart’s wardrobe was black, save that which bore the Duke’s green stripe. Obsidian raiment for an obsidian heart. Callas fell in beside him. The same wilderness that had seemed so forbidding on their journey north now seemed as prosaic as the words of his fellow soldiers. The promises of vengeance. Pointless promises. When would vengeance come, and how? No amount of killing could bring back the dead. He wished for a drink. By the Gods, just one good swallow. “The Lord of the Flies will have vengeance upon their souls.” Callas sounded certain.
