CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The Master of Crows climbed the hill of gibbets beyond the city, feeling a certain amusement at his attendants’ inability to keep up with his strides. It was a reminder of the strength that was growing in him, building by the moment. He strode ahead of them, past cage after cage filled with the dead or the dying, foes and former friends, the criminal or the merely unfortunate.
“As if it makes a difference,” he said to the wind.
He strode to the top, where more gibbets stood in a circle. All were occupied, but only one held a living inhabitant. The man had probably been strong once, but his strength had fallen from him in his time there, leached away by hunger and the work of the crows.
“I know what this place is,” the man called out. “I know what you’re doing here!”
