“Krasians,” Marick said, spitting in the snow. “If it wasn’t demons, what happened?” Leesha asked. “Usually a good idea the cold doesn’t bite so hard in the South.” He chuckled mirthlessly. “Made the mistake of wintering in Rizon,” Marick said. “What are you doing here?” The Messenger was as handsome as ever, but there were yellowed bruises on his face only partially obscured by his long hair and beard, and he favored one leg slightly as he approached. “Wasn’t the corelings we fled,” a familiar voice said. “Rizon has over a hundred hamlets, all individually warded. “The wards in the entire city failed?” Leesha asked. “Where is the Deliverer?” a woman in the crowd cried. “They just started pouring in this morning, a couple hours past dawn. Vika, his wife, ran to embrace him as he hurried over. “Thank the Creator!” the Tender called when he caught sight of them. The Cutters were dragging logs out to the square so people would at least have a place to sit, but it seemed an impossible task. Tender Jona was running to and fro, shouting orders to his acolytes as they tried to give comfort to those in need. Exhausted, they rested in grim misery on the frozen cobbles. All were filthy, ragged, and half starved. Hundreds of folk, many of them injured and none of them familiar, filled the square. The Corelings’ Graveyard was in chaos when Leesha and the others returned to town.
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