The man called Seer could hear snowmelt dripping off the eaves during the day, and at night he could hear the thatch above crackle as melted snow and ice refroze. It was not true spring, but winter was losing its grip.
Quam, let spring be soon, he prayed, his lips moving silently. Just speaking made him tired, these days. Each viewing sapped him further, as if his life were an icicle: melting at day, growing at night, but ultimately doomed as spring rushed closer.
Quam, let spring be soon,“What do you see today, old friend? Look north,” Bloodless’ voice coaxed.
Seer inhaled the sickly herbal odor from the necromancer’s fire and felt another drip of life leave his body.
“I see nothing. The Orgooth are quiet.”
“To the west.”
“The heretics are gone.”
“All of them?”
No, Seer thought. A
