“Raven feathers,” he said, “and look at this.”
On the tip of each, a drop of blood gleamed ruby-red.
“Aye,” Melcorka said. “You are right, Bradan. This Butcher is no ordinary man.” Hitching up Defender, she peered across the darkening plain. “We are coming for you!” she shouted.
This time there was no reply, only silence so deep that Melcorka felt it pressing on her.
“Come on, Bradan, we're wasting time.”
Descending from the plateau of the moor, they entered the fertile plain. “Where are all the people?” Bradan asked. “This place should have 100 small farms. Instead, it is empty.”
Even although the autumn air was brisk, there was no friendly tang of smoke in the air, no bright firelight to welcome weary travellers. Each farm was empty, the fields bare of livestock and the crops ungat
