REMAINS
“War is a dangerous place.”
– George W. Bush
Desolation. The rain wailed.
Jarrod stood in the courtyard of Regoth Ur, a layer of furs over his swordsman's jacket against the cold, the towers empty, the manor house charred to its bones.
Jarrod had only experienced castles here as places of animation, and enterprise, and life. The hulk around him was staggering in its noiselessness. It was, by any definition that mattered, dead. A corpse. The town within the walls was abandoned and still, and his immediate reaction was to wonder if there was another prison camp nearby although he was in no position to go and look for it.
The shops were burned away, the carts overturned and empty, the fires in the walls long cold. Piles of bodies, more than he wanted to count, stood heaped and
