“Come, boy,” Brin said. “You’ve earned some food.”
As they walked away from the tower, now rendered useless, Tapel knew he’d let everyone down. If these men killed him, Tapel hoped Rogan would never find out about the part he’d played.
His only hope was to bide his time and try to escape.
If Altura called, none of the eastern lands would come.
18
Beorn handed Miro a rectangular stone and Miro heaved, his honed muscles straining as he set the block on top of the fresh mortar, fixing it firmly in place before reaching to take the next.
Miro was bare chested in the sun, sweating in the ever warmer weather, but he found he was glad to be doing something physical. He was a man of action—planning gave him headaches and kept him awake at night. At Ella’s suggestion he’d started helping out with the building, digging, clearing, and carrying. At Amelia’s insistence he began to take a half hour out of each day—sometimes more—to play with Tomas, digging up the gardens outside the Crystal Palace and making a general mess. Physical fatigue helped him sleep, whereas mental fatigue never could.
Miro and Beorn were working at the defenses just outside Sarostar, where the arc of wall guarding the road from Castlemere now stood one foot taller. Unlike the wall outside Castlemere itself, this wall had ramparts, places where the defenders could stand high above a foe and rain down destruction. The wall was complete, but it could always be higher, stouter, and stronger. Miro paused to wipe sweat from his eyes while Beorn leaned back with a hand on his hip, his spine making a sound like a whip.
“I’m too old for this,” Beorn grumbled, wiping dust from his beard.
“It’s good for a man your age to get out and about,” Miro said, grinning.
“Age means experience. Before I arrived, your brickwork was all over the place,” Beorn said.
“What’s that sound?” one of the soldiers said to a fellow.
Miro raised his head when he heard the last sound he’d been expecting to hear: the pounding of hooves signaling a horse at full gallop.
The rider came into view an instant later, skirting the wall until he reached Miro and then pulling his horse to a stop with a savage tug on the reins. The face of Jehral of House Hazara was flushed, and his chest heaved as he looked down at Miro.
The men around stopped work, and suddenly all eyes were on the desert warrior, his exotic garb of flowing black and yellow incongruous among all the shirtless workers. Miro’s eyes took in Jehral’s haggard face and the frothing mouths of the horses. There was blood on Jehral’s chest, and though Miro didn’t know horses, he could see that Jehral’s mount was done in. The second horse, evidently a remount, was even worse, staggering with exhaustion.
Jehral held himself awkwardly, and Miro saw bruises on his chin and a torn sleeve on his left arm. He looked like he’d taken a bad fall.
As his eyes met Jehral’s, Miro went rigid. Jehral must have ridden through the city to come here, galloping directly to the defenses. He would have had ample opportunity to stop at the Crystal Palace and refresh himself, yet here he was.
“Jehral,” Miro said. “Lord of the Sky, did you just ride all the way from the desert? What happened to you?”
“It’s nothing,” Jehral said. He took several breaths to calm himself. “High Lord, I bring news. We discovered a wrecked ship off the coast of our lands. It must have blown off course and gone astray. The enemy can’t be far.”
“Describe the ship,” Beorn demanded.
“It was filled with revenants,” Jehral said.
The men around gasped in chorus. Miro’s stomach clenched.
“It was huge, bigger than any vessel I’ve seen. The ship’s foundering had taken a toll, but it was once painted with bright colors.”
Miro closed his eyes. A ship full of revenants, wrecked on the coastline off the Hazara desert. It could only mean one thing. They were here.
“What happened to you?” Beorn asked.
“I was ambushed by four men on the way. I think they were Tingaran.”
“Tingaran?” Miro lifted his gaze. “Where?”
“Not far from Sarostar, near the river.”
“The signals,” Beorn said. “We need to make the call.”
“Scratch it!” Miro said. “We can’t.”
“Every hour that goes by . . .”
“Beorn, the ship was wrecked in Hazaran lands. It doesn’t tell us anything other than that they’re close.”
“We fought one of the revenants,” Jehral said. “They were still and unmoving, bodies decayed, but one was . . . alive. It killed four of my men.”
“What do we do?” Beorn asked.