It moved their feet to the end of each shift, tempted unwilling bodies into the shafts, and indeed, light found them. Morning breaking. They spilled out into the day.
Now, the song seemed like a threat. He rather hoped light never found him again.
In Margarite’s tunnel, Patrick’s shoulder beat its own pulse. His legs had begun to quake—from the blood loss, he suspected.
The bleeding had stopped, but the bullet remained buried somewhere in the sinew, and every so often he found his focus drifting, his view slipping sideways.
The tunnel in each direction was filled with soldiers wearing Artisan navy. The Lords’ infantry. They staggered along with their own weeping sores. The soldier at Patrick’s elbow was trying valiantly to hold his own brow together, but it was intent on streaming like
